


The House of Red and White

by Shady_97



Category: The Strain (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-01-23 07:20:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 84,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12501940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shady_97/pseuds/Shady_97
Summary: Big fan of THE STRAIN series -- but not such a big fan of how they handled some things, especially Quinlan, who was criminally underutilized. So here's my version, which starts with Season 3 and veers off from there to right the wrongs. All major characters will be included, with the addition of one original main character. You can probably guess what that's about. Hope y'all enjoy, and looking forward to finding some fellow Strain-heads to dish with.





	1. Chapter 1

** The House of Red & White **

_Red Hook Checkpoint – Brooklyn, NY_

 

Two men who look like they would rather be doing anything else besides standing guard in the middle of a wintry December night take turns pacing back and forth in front of the now-gated entrance to the Brooklyn neighborhood of Red Hook. They don't speak to one another – they'd long since run out of stuff to talk about. They need every ounce of energy they have left just to stay warm and awake until their relief arrives – the only sounds they make are the sighs as they yawn.

They don't even notice the figure approaching them for a good few minutes. But eventually one of the men, a short, stocky guy – who before all the shit came down drove a delivery truck and schlepped boxes all day – squints at the movement he finally sees.

"Looks like we got incoming," he says to his partner, who just yawns in response. Stocky guy stares at him for a minute and then smacks him in the shoulder to rouse him.

"Yo! I said, incoming!"

"What? Where?" Yawning guy replies, not even attempting to move from the Jersey barrier he's propped himself up against.

"Right there, you moron, wake the fuck up!" Stocky guy fires back, just as the silhouette passes under one of the massive work lights illuminating the street – revealing more information. Yawning guy rubs his dry, exhausted eyes and squints – then he chuckles.

"Oh, shit…yeah. Think I need glasses or somethin'."

"Or somethin'," Stocky guy repeats, taking the lead to approach the visitor, who he can now see much better – a person of average height, wearing a parka with the hood up and shouldering an overloaded backpack. After another few seconds, Stocky guy grins…it's a woman. He can just tell by the size, the walk. "Maybe our night's lookin' up," he says, as the hooded woman gets within thirty feet. Stocky guy puts on a more professional stance that he hopes makes him look macho, hands in the ready position on his AR-15 semiautomatic rifle.

"Sorry, ma'am, but citizens need to be off the street after curfew," he says – but the woman just keeps walking toward them, until she's within ten feet. Then she stops, putting her gloved hands up in the universal "don't shoot" gesture. The men exchange looks with each other and then eyeball her, suspiciously. Yawning guy trudges up to stand beside his partner.

"What're you doin' out here?" he asks the woman, whose face still remains hidden in the shadow of her parka's fur-rimmed hood.

"Sorry, I didn't know about the curfew," she replies in an easy-going voice that's as East Coast-sounding as their own, but with a slightly different intonation that only locals would notice – one that identifies her as an out-of-stater.

"Whaddaya mean? How could you _not_ know? The hell _you_ been hidin'?" Stocky guy asks.

"Well, I'm not from here. I came up from Philly," she says, and both men do a take at that.

"Serious? You _walked_ all the way here from Philly?" Yawning guy asks with a chuckle, and she shrugs.

"No, not all the way. I had a horse for a while, but the goddamned vamps got to her just north of Trenton. Sucked her dry, poor girl."

"A horse," Stocky guy repeats, totally amused by her now. "The hell'd you find a fuckin' horse in Philly?"

"She was just standing there by a dead cop, god only knows how long she'd been there. What, you guys don't still use mounted Police?" she replies, and Stocky guy's amusement level drops.

"Of course we do…I mean, we did. But we're gettin' off the point. What're you doin' here now?"

"Well, obviously I need to get into Red Hook."

"Obviously. Why, though? What's so important it couldn't wait 'til tomorrow?"

"Why would I wait?"

"Well, 'cause –'cause it's safer," Stocky guy says, starting to feel like he's being played somehow. "Munchers are all over the place at night. Quite frankly anybody who'd go walkin' around by themselves after dark must be fuckin' insane."

"'Munchers?' That's an interesting name for them. Where'd you get that?"

"I dunno, I heard it from some other guy."

He can't see her chuckle in response, but he hears it, ever so softly. "I like that. But look, guys, I've been walking in the cold and sleeping in the bushes for almost a fucking month trying to get here. I'm sick and tired of it and I'd really just like to get to where I need to go, like _now_ , so I can finally stop walking, y'know?" she says.

"Where the hell're you tryin' to get to?" Stocky guy asks.

"I'm trying to find my brother. He has a place on Richards Street. Please guys, just help me out, okay?" she replies.

"Sorry, hon, rules is rules. You're not gettin' anywhere tonight," Yawning guy says, and the parka's hood angles ever so slightly in his direction to let him know she's looking at him.

"Where am I supposed to go?"

"Not our problem. Our job's to keep the weirdos out, so turn around and find another bush to sleep in 'til the sun comes up," he says. The woman chuckles again, but it's an ironic one this time.

"So you would turn me away, knowing the kind of danger I'm in out here by myself."

"Hey, nobody told you to keep trekkin' after dark. And if you ain't got sense enough to get off the street at night, then you're gonna hafta take your chances. Now get outta here," Stocky guy warns, flexing his hands around their places on the rifle for emphasis.

A tense silence passes. Then the woman sighs, long and hard. "Fine. What do you want?" she asks.

"What're you talkin' about?" Stocky guy asks, and she takes slow steps toward him, dropping the parka's hood back to finally reveal her face. And it's not that she's supermodel-stunning – it's just that seeing her makes both men realize how much has changed in the short time since the outbreak began. Cute, ordinary women like her used to be everywhere all the time, their existence taken for granted. But not anymore – to them, she's a rare sight now, like a unicorn – and even more dreamlike with her super-saturated blue hair. And it's not a wig – it's dyed, long and flowy and well-maintained, shining under the harsh work lights.

"Funny how quickly we've gone from using Apple Pay to trading in sexual favors," she replies. "So what do you want? Will a blow job get me through the door or what?" she says, with a flat calm that contradicts the ridiculousness of the question. The two men just look at each other, not sure whether to take her seriously – but finally Yawning guy changes his stance on his rifle, aiming it at her.

"Think we've had enough o' your bullshit, Smurfette. Now get the fuck outta here before—" he starts – and then gasps, his breathing instantly cut off. His eyes widen in shock as he stares at the ordinary-pretty woman with the bright blue hair, who's now right in his face with one hand firmly grasping his crotch through his pants.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" she whispers. Stocky guy grabs her other arm to pull her off, but she suddenly turns and plants a solid kiss on his mouth. Then she breaks off both the kiss and the crotch-grab, giving both guys a seductive stare before walking past them into the guard shack. And like hypnotized rats following the pied piper, the guys follow her, sliding the door shut behind them.

Ten minutes later the door slides open again and the woman walks out, throwing her parka back on and putting the hood back up. She throws her heavy backpack over her shoulder as the gate slides open, slipping through as soon as there's enough room. She walks away quickly, but not too quickly.

Most importantly, she doesn't look back.

And she keeps up the pace until the checkpoint is far enough behind her that she can no longer see it. Then she ducks into the nearest doorway and drops her pack. She tears it open, scrambling through its contents until she finds what she's looking for – a travel-sized bottle of antiseptic mouthwash. She upends the bottle into her mouth and swishes the liquid around, stamping a foot down to combat the acidic burn that rips across her tongue and gums. Then after thirty seconds or so, she turns her head and spits, sending a spray of mouthwash flying – hoping it will expel not only the bacteria but also the humiliation she had to endure just to get through a gate.

She stays in the doorway for a while afterward, wiping tears from her eyes – some caused by the mouthwash sting, some from anger, some from guilt, some from just feeling like shit overall. She wipes her mouth over and over, and uses what little is left of the mouthwash to clean her hands. Then she chucks the bottle away and sinks down to the ground, hugging her backpack like a pillow or a teddy bear. She huddles in the doorway like the homeless person she is.

Before the vampire virus took over and turned the world upside down, she had a good life – a good job as a nurse at a prominent doctor's office, which made her good money, which afforded her a good condo and the ability to provide herself a good time when she felt the need. She went out to dinner several nights a week, went to concerts and parties, had lots of friends and no shortage of guys to sleep with if she felt the need for that, too.

Then the plane full of infected people landed at JFK airport and changed everything for everybody, everywhere. Within two weeks, hospitals in Philly started seeing their first cases of the strange, horrible and highly contagious disease that turned ordinary people into blood-sucking killers. By the time another week had passed there was mass looting, crime and panic to such an extreme degree that the City Council had to institute a curfew and curtail travel. The city itself seemed to catch the disease too, losing its color, its vibrancy – and suddenly everyone was living in an epic, post-apocalyptic movie.

Except it wasn't a movie.

And through it all, all she could think about was finding a way out of the city and getting to her brother – a brother she hadn't actually seen in over a year but always felt close to. She called him numerous times after the start of the outbreak but never got a hold of him – and then when everything fell apart, all of a sudden the smartphones that no one could live without before became almost totally useless. Almost.

She digs in her coat pocket to pull out her phone and wake it up, scrolling and swiping her way to the GPS mapping program. Luckily, the vampire virus couldn't get into space to infect and kill the thousands of satellites in orbit. Before now, she couldn't have cared less about tech-y gadgets – she used her phone of course, but wasn't glued to it like most of her friends. She didn't have fifteen different social media accounts. She didn't take selfies. She still liked to hand-write letters and read actual books and newspapers. But now, as she sits there in the filthy doorway, she was so glad her brother had shown her the error of her luddite ways. She zooms in on the area and connects the digital dots marking the route between her current spot and her brother's place on Richards Street – certainly a much shorter route now, but still at least a good hour's worth of walking.

Then a noise draws her eye away from the light of the screen to the dark street around her. She shuts off the phone and shoves it back in her pocket, pushing her back up against the door frame, listening. And it isn't long before she hears the telltale sounds of vampires – rough, ragged breathing and low growls like feral dogs on the prowl. Her imprudent use of the phone probably marked her. She curses to herself as the sounds get louder and closer – estimating a small group of three or four, though she can't be exactly sure until she breaks cover.

As quietly as possible, she reaches behind her head to slide her chosen weapon – a machete she nicked from a hardware store – out of the scabbard she wears on her back, underneath the parka. She stands up slowly, staying flush with the doorway until their rabid-dog-like sounds get loud enough that she knows they're right there. She closes her eyes for the few seconds it takes to take a couple of deep, deep breaths and let them out – psyching herself up to do something that she never, ever thought she would do in her life even once. But if she counts the three or four she's about to take on, her current count would be somewhere around ten.

She steps out from her meager cover and swings away – reminding herself to be strong enough to look them directly in their black eyes as she kills them, reminding herself to go for the fatal wounds to the head, the throat or chopping off the tentacle/stinger/disgustingly long tongue-thing to make sure they stay down. She lets out several primal screams to gain some power as she strikes, and she hears their animalistic screams and feels the resistance against the machete blade as it slices through them, sending their toxic white innards splattering everywhere.

Then the frightening noise dies along with the vampires, and the ordinary-pretty, blue-haired nurse from Philly stands looking over her kill – a group of three monsters, who just two months ago were probably perfectly nice people. But she keeps her grip tight on the machete handle, watching them for another moment to make sure they're dead before checking herself for any white worm-filled blood that might have gotten on her. She bends a little to wipe the machete blade off on one of the vampires' clothing. Then she grabs her backpack and takes off, in the general direction of Richards Street – and hopefully to safety.

* * *

 

_Outside the Olympian Club, W. 54th St., Manhattan_

Vasiliy Fet storms out of the building where his mentor and fellow Muncher-Hunter, Professor Abraham Setrakian, has holed himself up to pore over an ancient book called the _Occido Lumen._ The Professor was convinced that it held the solution to the world's problem – the vampires. In particular, how to destroy the one called _"The Master"_ – a funny name considering that he wasn't unique – he was actually one of seven of the same detestable creatures. But The Master was apparently the only one with the extra-large ego and ambition to try and achieve world domination on his own.

And if the last few weeks were any indication, so far, The Master's plan was going pretty damned swimmingly. He set his sights on the greatest city in the world as his base of operations, sending a plane full of "infected" passengers to JFK - most of them dead, but not all. Four people survived to carry the plague into the population - and while The Master's human collaborators took him safely into hiding, the vampire disease moved like wildfire on a dry, windy day.

Fet sniffs from the cold in the air, readjusting his backpack as he jumps into the beat-to-hell delivery truck that had become his ride of late. He starts it up and drives away from the club, his eyes roving back and forth, each successive block bumming him out more and more, seeing what's become of his beloved home. Trash fires burning everywhere, abandoned cars – and no sign of life anywhere. No color. No luscious smell of pizza grease. No beautiful, bustling-city noise. Just the cold and the terrible silence that accompanies the dead. He shakes his head in disgust and sorrow, knowing more about the city's incredible history than most natives – and it kills him to see it looking the way it does now.

He turns a corner and speeds up, checking his watch – he still had plenty of time before he had to be back at the headquarters of the Safe Streets Initiative, the new program headed up by Councilwoman Justine Feraldo, his new hero _…er…heroine._ Her brave, ballsy and most importantly, effective tactics against the Munchers in her home base of Staten Island had turned her into Superwoman. Now the rest of New York looked to her to use the same strategy to clear the vampires out of Manhattan. She was under a tremendous amount of pressure politically, financially and personally, since the city wasn't getting any help from the federal government. The only aid that had come through was one team of Navy SEALS, who'd been deployed to New York to find The Master and take him out – and Feraldo had given Fet the huge responsibility and prestigious position of being the SEALS' liaison.

And if Fet did say so himself, she couldn't have picked a better guy to be their navigator, their spotter, their eyes and ears underground – where he'd spent years working as an exterminator. But as proud as he was of his status with Feraldo and the good work he and the SEALS had been doing day after day, and night after night, they still weren't any closer to discovering The Master's location. They cleared nest after nest, smoked hundreds of Munchers – more properly known as _Strigoi_ – but still, no sign of The Master. Not since Setrakian had wounded The Master's original host body enough to make him switch to a new one – a Goth-metal singer called Bolivar.

So even though he had much to be proud of, when he stood in front of Professor Setrakian just now, Fet felt small, even though he was a pretty huge dude. Setrakian was so preoccupied with the stupid book that he barely heard anything he said and didn't seem to give two shits about how many Strigoi they'd killed. Fet didn't get the approval he craved from the man who, for better or worse, had become his father-figure – and as much as that pissed him off, what pissed him off even more was seeing the half-Muncher, half-human _thing_ that called itself Quinlan, hanging out there with him like his new best buddy.

Fet grips and releases his hands on the steering wheel as he fumes, both shocked and unbelievably cheesed off that the Professor could be so blasé about it. In fact, if he didn't know better, Fet would say the old man even seemed to hold Quinlan in a higher regard than him, simply because the thing was supposedly two thousand years old and carried a sword with somebody's femur for a handle.

_Big fuckin' deal…it's still a Muncher._

Aside from all of his personal feelings about the matter, Fet also had a gut feeling that having Quinlan in such close proximity to the book was going to come back and _– ha, get it –_ bite them, big time. The Master went through a lot of trouble to keep the Lumen out of their hands – and even though Quinlan claimed to be unaffected by The Master's voodoo mind control, Fet was sure, _absolutely, positively sure_ that Quinlan would fuck them all over the first chance he _– it –_ got. So as he drives along, headed back toward the Safe Streets Initiative HQ where he _is_ appreciated, Fet mulls it over – tries to come up with a plan to head the half-breed off at the pass.

It sure felt better than sulking about not being the Professor's favorite anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter 2** _

 

_Rockefeller Center, 5th Avenue, Manhattan_

Quinlan trolls the mostly empty Manhattan streets as he did most nights lately, waiting until Professor Setrakian had given up the day's quest to unravel the secrets of the Occido Lumen and fallen asleep – usually right on top of the book. By that time, Quinlan's patience would be worn down to practically nothing, and it would take all his considerable fortitude to keep from trashing the place in a fit of frustration. So out he would go, staying gone until just before the sun came up – hunting for a meal and a way to vent at the impenetrable wall of inertia he found himself up against.

Truth be told, he actually admired the Professor. That a mere human of Setrakian's age took on The Master and forced him to retreat was nothing short of extraordinary. But Setrakian wasn't nearly as impressed – if anything, he was greatly troubled by the fact that forcing The Master out into the sun didn't kill him outright. The prehistoric bastard managed endure the pain long enough to escape into the vast network of tunnels underneath the city – and there he remained, recovering from his injuries and settling into a new host, no doubt. So while the victory was small, it was still a victory – something to find some encouragement in, something to boost confidence and keep the momentum going. But if anything, it seemed to have the opposite effect on the Professor. He was much less sure of himself now, overly cautious – and that kind of hesitation could prove deadly for all of them. More than once – much more than once, actually – Quinlan could feel the twitch in his hands as he watched the Professor obsess over the translation of individual phrases in the Lumen and what they _might_ mean. The urge to grab the old man by the lapels and yell at him to quit hiding behind the book was almost overwhelming.

But he never did it. Respect for the old man and refocusing on the ultimate goal won out every time – so far, anyway. Instead Quinlan would channel his aggression into scouting the streets for the nearest lowlife he could get his hands on. And that poor bastard received the thrashing he longed to give the Professor – him and that Ukrainian thug who came by earlier in the day, Mister Fet. The rodent catcher who fancied himself some kind of superhero for taking up the fight against The Master alongside the Professor. Quinlan had met so many others like him over the centuries – arrogant, tiresome, supremely irritating – and in desperate need of an attitude adjustment.

_Yes, the rat man could definitely do with a good thrashing before I suck him dry…though I wonder if the taste of his blood might not be as off-putting as his personality._

As Quinlan nears the Rockefeller Center complex, where it opens up into a large open space below street level – the night's quarry makes itself heard. Quinlan sneaks along the wall surrounding the open area and looks down, spotting a group of four straggly-looking scavengers, their backpacks in a pile, overflowing with looted goods – profiting from city's demise. Quinlan squints at them, watching as they gulp down 40-ounce beers and slide around on what appears to be a large rectangle of – ice. Quinlan makes a curious face at that _…why in the world would they have a giant patch of ice in the middle of the city?_

But as he watches the four men, none of them more than 30, slipping and falling on their asses – he hears them laughing. And the sound instantly transports Quinlan back in time to London in the late 1800's. He remembers children doing the same thing, purposefully running as fast as they could to jump onto a patch of ice just so they would slide along it as fast as possible – and then fall on their little asses.

_What did they call it again? Oh, yes…"skating." And how they would laugh…such a wonderful sound, that…a child's laugh._

And the sound of their remembered laughter digs deeper into his subconscious and exhumes a buried memory, one more personal and much more painful – the sound of a little girl giggling the way only children can. He can even hear it in his ears as if she were there right now, right behind him playing hide-and-seek like they used to and thinking she was invisible. Quinlan flinches, shutting his eyes and turning his head aside like the sun just came out for a second and its light hit him squarely in the face. He waits for it to go away, the brilliant and terrible sound, the innocent face – and the feelings attached to all of it.

He pushes the face, the sound and the recollection back down where they were before, in the deep dark of his long memory – refocusing on the unsuspecting group below on the ice. He slinks along the wall to the steps, stealthy and silent as he descends and approaches them. He watches their juvenile antics with a slight, curious interest as they push and shove each other around on the ice, watching each other fall and laughing about it. In fact, they seemed to be perfectly happy despite the horrid state of their city - their lives. Were they to survive the plague, Quinlan was fairly certain they wouldn't be productive members of society. And that disturbs him - makes him even more certain that these are the proper targets.

Though he had to admit, it was still mostly foreign to him, that kind of camaraderie, the immaturity that gradually falls away with age. He never got to experience any of that – not really. He had a mother, of course, who was doomed from the moment The Master targeted her. She didn't live long enough for him to remember her well. Later, in Rome, another woman named Ancharia became his mother-figure for a while. Learned and kind, she guided him out of his primal form and instincts. She educated him on what his unnaturally long, unfortunate life was going to be. But he never really got to know the joy of being a child. He rarely got to experience joy of any kind. Quinlan was born old – doomed to watch the world die over and over again across the millennia.

His dear father, The Master – he made sure of it.

And that's all the push he needs to completely forget about the little angel girl he once knew in London and her sweet laugh. He draws the bone-handled sword from his back as he steps onto the ice and crosses it with ease – and only when he's right on top of them do the four punk guys even notice he's there. And it's the same old reaction he always gets, the wide-eyed stares and gaping mouths inside their ugly human faces, always saying the same stupid things.

"Holy fuckin' shit…!"

"The fuck is _that?_ "

The ice-skating punks all drop their 40's and fumble about for their weapons – a couple of baseball bats, a machete and one .45 from the alpha male of the group, who steps forward, undoubtedly emboldened by the gun he's holding quite incorrectly at the end of his straight-and-locked arm.

Quinlan cocks his head at him. "Do you really expect to hit what you're aiming at holding the gun that way?" he asks in his usual calm and downright pleasant-sounding voice, which makes all the young punks do a double-take.

"Holy shit…the freak _talks!_ In a fuckin' British accent at that!" Alpha shouts, slurring his words. The others snicker, egging him on – so he uses the still-sideways gun to put emphasis on his words. "Well, lemme tell ya somethin' there, Alfred, I _always_ hit what _I'm_ aimin' at. And right now that's you, so, y'know…best step off 'fore I air you out!"

"I'd love to see you try," Quinlan replies – and he can see that it wasn't what Alpha was hoping to hear. The glint of fear in his eyes gives it away. He's about to fire some ridiculous, macho comment back – but before he can get a single syllable out, Alpha goes suddenly bug-eyed with the realization that something so sharp he couldn't even feel it has just chopped his gun hand off at the wrist. Alpha gasps as he looks down at the pristine, white ice and sees the growing pool of red – and his own hand in the center of it, still grasping the gun.

The others stand frozen in shock, too stunned to do anything – giving Quinlan plenty of time to open his mouth and strike with his Strigoi tongue that looks a lot more like a tentacle, with petal-like folds on the end that unfurl to reveal the inner stinger. It moves with the speed of a whip-crack, so before poor Alpha is even aware of it happening, Quinlan's latched on to his throat, draining him. He doesn't even need to concern himself with the other three, knowing that their natural survival instincts will kick in – if they're smart, that is – and they'll bolt.

And the punks prove him right, as they nearly break their own legs and ankles trying to run off the ice as fast as they can, sliding the rest of the way when they can't get back up. They scramble up the stairs back up to the street – and Quinlan hears their terrified, girlish shrieks echoing off the buildings as they run away.

When he feels Alpha's blood flow decreasing to the point of a trickle, Quinlan releases his hold, his tongue folding back in on itself as it retracts. He closes his mouth, and feels the odd drips of blood oozing out of the sides – which he catches on a gloved finger, pushing every available drop into his mouth. He closes his eyes for a moment, relishing the feeling of the fresh, warm blood filling his empty gut and spreading out from there to rejuvenate him. It clouds his brain with a momentary high that he can only imagine was like the drugs and alcohol humans used.

He looks down at Alpha, the young man's now-withered face frozen in a stupefied death-expression – eyes wide, his skin ashy gray. And as with most of his kills, done out of need rather than in the heat of battle or for sport, Quinlan feels the very human guilt that goes along with taking a life, twinging like a silver splinter in his chest. Even though Alpha was a drunk, shit-talking punk, he was still a part of the race Quinlan was meant to save. That was how life was for him - cruelly ironic - that he had to kill them and save them at the same time, and live with it. But it was all to further the cause – keeping him alive long enough to destroy The Master – because he was the only one who could do it. Alpha was just another casualty of war, one of countless in Quinlan's two thousand-plus years on the planet. Alpha's contribution would hold him over for a day or so – and then another soul would have to be sacrificed.

Luckily, humans had no problem making more of themselves. In fact, they procreated so much and so often that they overpopulated the planet. They didn't see the ability to have children as the precious gift it was - until now, that is. Now that the great culling had begun, they would no longer take the miracle of life for granted. But that was just another thing Quinlan would never get to experience – being a father to his own offspring.

Quinlan lets the guilt over Alpha's death pass through him – through him and away, just like the night that was rapidly disappearing. He walks off the ice, his long, open coat flowing like black sails behind him as he heads up to the street and back toward the Olympian Club – his home, for now – for as long as he could stand to be around the infuriating humans.

 

* * *

 

 

_Richards Street - Red Hook, Brooklyn_

Ephraim Goodweather parks his stolen taxicab behind Fet's converted machine-shop and domicile – which had now become Eph's lab and domicile. Fet hadn't been there in weeks – not since their motley crew of misfit warriors had broken up to pursue their own directions in the good fight. Fet had eagerly jumped on Councilwoman Feraldo's bandwagon, just as much out of a need to get away from the house's awkward romantic dynamics of late as any sense of duty. His lover, Dutch Velders – the hot hacker from across the pond who broke the internet before the vampire epidemic hit – recently revealed her penchant for playing on both teams when her old girlfriend surfaced. She took off to work things out with her – and in the process, dumped Fet like a hot rock and broke his surprisingly fragile heart.

_Poor dumb bastard…I coulda told him Dutch was a flake and a half, bi or straight._

As he walks quickly to the bolted steel doors, always making sure now to look around for impending threats, Eph stops himself from doing anymore judging. He has no room to ridicule Fet or anybody else for that matter, as his own personal life was a complete and total disaster of his own making. He managed to make an enemy of his wife, Kelly, with his ambition and over-dedication to his work at the CDC – and more recently, his affair with colleague Nora Martinez. An affair that was all over now, but the mess of it would stay with him for the rest of his life. As he steps inside and seals the door shut, Eph turns and bangs the back of his shaven head against the hard, cold steel a few times.

_Nora…NoraNoraNora…_

Just thinking her name brought it all to the front of his mind again. Seeing Nora's beautiful face tainted by the white worms crawling underneath her skin – watching her kill herself and not being able to do a goddamned thing about it. To the very end, Nora protected him and all that was his – his life, his work, his son Zach. But what did her fierce loyalty ever get her except a shit-ton of misery and a painful, untimely death?

_And that's all on you, Doctor Genius-boy…had she never gotten involved with you, she'd still be alive now. She'd be somewhere else, maybe just as fucked by the situation as everybody else, but at least she'd still be alive…the world would still have her singular light._

Eph lets out a ragged breath at that, giving his head one more solid, masochistic _thunk_! on the door before turning to the makeshift lab he'd set up. It all looked so useless now and only served as another reminder of Nora's absence. All their work creating a toxin to kill the Strigoi – only to discover now, according to Councilwoman Feraldo's latest update, that it wasn't working as well as they thought it would. What should have been one hundred percent lethal one hundred percent of the time, was down to maybe three-quarters of that. Something went wrong somewhere. Something they missed. Adaptation on the Strigoi's part? _Unlikely, but possible, I guess._ Improper mixture of the chemicals somewhere along the way? _Maybe._ But at the moment, Eph couldn't drum up the energy to care about solving that particular problem, even though Feraldo was on his back like a bad habit to come up with more options for her.

_Speaking of bad habits…_

Eph starts moving around the room with purpose then, opening every drawer and cabinet, searching for any stash he might have forgotten about. And after a moment of rifling he finds a mostly-empty fifth of cheap, shitty vodka, his preferred poison. He preferred vodka because it didn't have to be expensive to be effective. And anymore, money didn't matter anyway – not at the black market, the gathering of scavengers selling all kinds looted shit out of the backs of vans. He could always find somebody with cheap, shitty vodka to trade. Eph unscrews the cap, upends the bottle into his mouth and finishes off the firewater, relishing the burn as it races down his throat and into his gut – well on its way to continue rotting his liver. He'd gone sober for a while as part of his effort to get his shit together for Zach and Kelly - but that was all over now. The new reality of the world was just too much to handle without a crutch – especially after what happened during last night's vigil.

After Zach disappeared with Kelly, Eph made a nightly ritual of going back to their home in Queens and waiting there, hoping Zach would find his way home somehow. Of course, he half-expected that the only way he'd find his way home would be as a newly-turned Strigoi, on the hunt for his loved ones, because that's how they worked. Eph had nightmares about it every time he slept. But then something crazy happened. Kelly showed up instead, and she looked normal – healthy, even. But she wasn't. There was no way she could be. And it only took seeing the signature Strigoi inner eyelid blinking to know the deal. No, Kelly was still The Master's puppet – but now she had elevated status, allowing her to retain her own thoughts and some of her will. And she could disguise herself just like The Master's right hand "man," former Nazi officer Thomas Eichhorst.

Kelly even had an entourage of scary, crab-walking Strigoi children with her. Eph could only guess that they were like a pack of bloodhounds – quite literally – as they crawled over everything like bugs, even the walls. Then Kelly walked right up to Eph and relayed The Master's proposal – an offer to trade Zach for the Occido Lumen, the ancient book Professor Setrakian had just gotten a hold of.

Eph sits down at one of the tables covered in useless lab equipment, grabs the remote for the stereo and turns it on as he usually did. Soothing jazz wafts out of the speakers, but he barely hears it as he sits there zoning – lost, with no idea what to do now. On the one hand, it should be a no-brainer – rescuing Zach should be the priority over everything and anything else, especially a book. But the Lumen was no ordinary book. It was a silver-bound repository of ancient knowledge going back millennia. Like the Dead Sea Scrolls, but even more important – because supposedly, somewhere inside it was the answer to eliminating the Strigoi for good. And if that was the case, then the Lumen could save _everyone_ – including Zach.

 _So what's the right answer?_ Eph asks himself, absent-mindedly tapping the stereo remote on the desk. _How do **I** make that kind of decision? I'm just one guy…and not a great guy at that. I'm an asshole._ _Somebody better than me needs to do this…it's too fuckin' big._

He immediately thinks of the Professor – the closest thing to a real-life Yoda that he could think of. Setrakian had the worldly knowledge, experience and most of all, a long history hunting the Strigoi – he was the expert. He would make the best decision. Eph scrunches his mouth in thought, just about to settle on it – _yeah, take it to Setrakian…let him decide_ , he thinks. But only a second later, Eph realizes that he already knows what the Professor will say. There's no way he would let the Lumen go now, not after all he went through to get it. And if Setrakian knew that The Master was so desperate to have it that he would make such a deal, it would probably just make him even more certain that the book contained the knowledge he needed – and make him even more determined to hold onto it. Zach's life wouldn't mean anything to him – not when weighed against the fate of the entire world.

So Eph finds himself right back where he started in the debate with himself _...what the hell do I do now?_

And almost as if it were an answer to his question, a banging on the doors startles him out of his reverie. Eph instinctively reaches behind his back for the 9mm he always carries now, double-checking the chamber. Then he slinks up to the window closest to the doors and peers through the dirty glass – but all he can see is someone in a parka, who bangs on the door again.

"Fet?" a woman's voice calls out. "Are you there?"

Eph makes a face, not recognizing the voice. The only woman either of them knew right now was Dutch, and this woman didn't have a Brit's accent. And it wasn't Feraldo, either – she always traveled with an NYPD escort and besides, the accent wasn't nearly Staten Island enough. _So who the hell is it then?_ Eph stands there for a moment, unsure what to do. Then more banging startles him again.

" _Fet!_ It's me! It's Petey! Lemme in!"

 _Petey…?_ Eph repeats silently. _Who the hell's **that**? _ With an annoyed sigh, he stows the gun behind his back and goes to the door, sliding the eye-level hatch open to look out. The harsh clunk of the steel surprises the woman peering back at him through the grate.

"Yeah?" Eph says – and the woman does a double-take.

"Uh…I'm looking for Fet…Vasiliy Fet," she says, and Eph squints at her.

"Who's asking?"

"I'm –" she starts, but then she squints right back at him. "Wait a minute. Who the hell're _you_?"

"Look, Fet's not here. Hasn't been for a while. Now are you gonna tell me who _you_ are or what?" Eph answers – and for a moment, there's a silence as both of them try to figure out if they're being played. Finally, the woman looks around as if someone might hear her, and then she sighs.

"I'm his sister," she says.

Eph makes a _"yeah, right"_ face at that. "Fet doesn't have a sister. Nice try, though," he fires back at her, about to slam the hatch shut. But then she bangs right on the grate, more desperate.

"Hey! How do _you_ know?"

Eph hesitates at that - slightly. "He never mentioned a sister to me."

"Oh, so that automatically means I'm lying? Check his bedroom…I know there's a picture of me in there somewhere," she says – and then she drops the hood of her parka back, revealing her face and her blue hair, which Eph does a take at.

"Whoa…nice hair," he says, sarcastic.

"Fuck you. Go find that picture," she says.

Eph stares at her for another second – then he shuts the hatch. He stands there by the door for a moment, debating – then he walks quickly into Fet's bedroom and looks around at all the stuff tacked up on the walls. And sure enough, he finds a photo taped up on the old gym locker that Fet used as a closet, a photo Eph never noticed before. The woman now standing outside the door stands on a sunset-lit beach in the photo – a beer in one hand, making the heavy-metal-devil-horns gesture with the other, her tongue hanging out like Gene Simmons from KISS and her shorter hair blowing everywhere. Shorter, but still blue. Eph flips the picture over and sees **_"Petey – Montauk, '13"_** written on the back, with a couple of hearts drawn on either side.

"Holy shit," Eph mutters. He sprints back to the doors and checks out the window again before opening them. The woman paces back and forth nervously, adjusting her heavy pack… _definitely the same woman._ Eph waits a few more seconds and then pulls back the huge bar holding the doors shut. Then he gestures for her to come in.

"Sorry…but Fet really never said anything about having a sister," he offers, standing aside as she steps in and then sliding the bar back into place. The woman looks around at the new set up and then looks at him with a "what the fuck" face.

"The hell's all this? You're not cookin' meth in here, are you?" she says, and Eph actually chuckles.

"Uh…no. Not meth. But I _am_ mixing toxic chemicals, yeah."

"Ohh-kay," she says, cautiously placing her backpack on the floor by the doors. Eph hands the photo to her – then he offers his hand.

"Ephraim Goodweather," he says – and at the mention of the name, the woman squints at him.

"Goodweather…?" she says, and then a second later her eyes go wide with recognition. "Oh, shit! You're the…the doctor guy! From the CDC, right?"

"The same."

"You had hair, though," she says. "And…the Feds were looking for you."

"And they still would be, but they have much bigger problems than me right now," he replies.

"Yeah, no shit. Don't we all."

"So your name is 'Petey?'"

"Oh…yeah. Nickname. Petey Fet," she says, shaking his hand, and Eph notes the strength of her grip – not the limp handshake that he was used to from most people.

"Well, I'd say make yourself at home, but this is more your home than mine. I'm just a glorified squatter," Eph says, and Petey grins at him – a hint at what he imagines is a lovely smile. Something he hasn't seen since _…Nora._ Twitching with the sudden sore thought, he sniffs and walks away from her, making a halfhearted effort to tidy up while Petey slips out of her parka and tosses it on the nearest chair. She takes off her scabbard and sets it down on top of her coat, and Eph notices the machete sticking out. Then she walks around the space, running her hand across tables and things, as if re-familiarizing herself.

"I'm really sorry about the mess. I've been sorta doing some work for Councilwoman Feraldo here and…well, it's not like I have a lot of help. Or any help," he explains, though he knows how lame it is. But Petey doesn't seem to notice, as she goes deeper into the space, disappearing into the back where Fet's bedroom is. He follows her, stopping a respectful distance away when he sees her sitting on his bed.

"Uh…I think there's still some coffee. I can make some if you want," he offers, watching her run her hands over the bedding and the pillows. Then, as if the bed itself reached out and pulled her down, she sinks down into it, clutching one of the pillows and closing her eyes.

"Y'know how long it's been since I slept in a bed? A _real_ bed?" she says.

"I'm guessing a while," he replies.

"Oh, god…this feels so good. I'm so tired…" she mutters. Eph watches her for another moment, unsure if she's still awake – but then after a few more seconds, he realizes by her breathing that she's totally passed out. He leaves her then, and goes back out to the main area, continuing to clean up the awful mess he's made of the place. Then he does what Councilwoman Feraldo not-so-subtly suggested he do earlier and takes a much-needed shower, changing into clean clothes he brought from the house in Queens.

Eph then moves around the place with a second wind, wanting to make a better impression for company – important company at that. And as he sets about making a fresh pot of coffee, the realization hits him. He'd been avoiding asking Feraldo for the location of the safehouse she provided for Fet and the Professor – because knowing it would mean he'd have to go there and tell them what happened to Nora and Zach.

And now on top of that he'd have to tell them about The Master's offer. Neither of which he wanted to do, and he was almost fine with not doing anything – but the morning's events seemed to dictate otherwise, pushed him in a definite direction. He had to go and face them now. There was no way around it.

It was just a question of what he would say – and do.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Chapter 3_ **

_Richards Street – Red Hook, Brooklyn_

 

Petey feels as if she's just crawled out of a deep, dark hole when she wakes up. She has no idea what time it is, and looking at the windows doesn't help. The winter light coming in gives everything a miscellaneous, grayish-white cast that makes it impossible to tell where the sun is in the sky. She sits up, feeling much heavier than she actually is – her head still swimming in the fog of deep sleep. Then her gut makes the most pathetic _"feed me, goddammit!"_ sound, and she rubs her tummy like it was a pet.

"I know…I know," she mutters, as she stretches her stiff legs out, swinging them over the side of the bed. She stands up like she was a hundred years old – feeling like it – wobbling a bit until her feet get adjusted to the weight. Then she meanders around the room, running a hand over the odds and ends Fet has left lying around: sunglasses, a couple of old watches, a Knicks mug holding loose change and pens, and some Ukrainian Easter eggs called _pysanka_ in a small wooden bowl. She opens up the locker/closet and grabs one of his shirts – burying her face in it, soaking up her brother's scent. No noxious cologne or B.O. stink – just a nice blend of NYC air with what she can only describe as a "manly" smell. Then Petey gets the sudden feeling she's being watched, and pulls her face out of Fet's shirt. She shoves it back in the locker and turns to see a politely tentative Eph standing there.

"Hey…you're alive," he says.

"Yeah," Petey replies, wondering whether she should explain the shirt-sniffing or not – but to her relief Eph changes the subject.

"Well, I hope you like pasta, 'cause microwave mac and cheese is all I got at the moment."

Petey gives him a thumbs-up. "Sounds like the best meal I've had in a month. What time is it, anyway?"

"Almost five."

"Shit…serious? I've been out all day?"

"Clearly, you needed it. Come on out when you're ready," Eph then says, and makes his exit.

Once he's gone, Petey dumps her backpack out on the bed – her whole life spilling out into a small pile. Her phone, wallet, passport, toiletry bag with makeup _…wait, why the fuck did I bring makeup? Dumbass,_ she thinks, as her eyes scan the rest – some beloved t-shirts, her expensive headphones, a first-aid kit, baby wipes and a few protein bars. She then changes out of the dirty clothes she's been in for a week straight and gives herself a quick swabbing with the baby wipes, hoping it at least cuts down on her stink. She digs in Fet's locker for a shirt and pants and puts them on even though they're way too big for her. She makes a mental note to procure some new clothes the following day before heading out into the living area.

A vague chemical odor hangs in the air, but she looks up and sees the skylight open, venting out most of it. She also notices the newly-welded-on grate covering the opening. She nods, always admiring her brother's DIY attitude. If anyone could safeguard a place for the apocalypse, it was Fet.

Petey gives Eph a slight smile as she joins him at the table, where a microwave container of mac and cheese sits steaming and ready. "Hope you don't mind it black," he says, as he pours some coffee into a white mug with her brother's sense of humor all over it: _"Coffee Makes Me Poop"_ in puffy brown letters.

"Whatever, as long as it's coffee," she replies, reading Eph's mug, a pretty blue one with _"Tears of My Enemies"_ written on it in classy script. The smell wafts up into her nose, and she inhales it long and deep before taking a sip. Then she closes her eyes and delights in the life-giving elixir running down her throat. "Ohhhh…that is _so_ nice."

Eph grins as he watches her wolf down the mac and cheese in less than a minute, leaving nothing but an empty cup and a ring of neon orange around her mouth, which she wipes away with her sleeve. "Oh, god…thank you. You have no idea how awesome this is. I'll never take mac and cheese for granted again," she mumbles while chewing.

"You're welcome," he replies, taking a few bites himself. Then a silence passes between them, during which Eph wishes he had more vodka instead of the coffee, and Petey wonders what the hell they're going to talk about for the rest of the night. The low volume of the music in the background – some blues this time – keeps it from being too unbearable for a while. But soon the lull just becomes too stifling for both of them.

"So," Eph finally says.

"Yeah…so," Petey replies – and when they catch each other's eyes, they crack up.

"So why do you think Fet never said anything to us about you?" Eph then asks, and Petey makes a face.

" _Us?_ How many people are living here now?"

"Right now? Just me. But—" Eph starts – then he waves it off, not wanting to get into it. "It's a long and _really weird_ story."

"Oh, well, now you _have_ to tell me," Petey replies. "Besides, I got like, a million questions for you. Like for starters, how did the most famous doctor in the world right now end up here with my brother?"

Eph watches as Petey slides forward on the table top on her arms, propping her head up, totally lasered on him. He's trapped now – trapped into telling her the story of the end of the world – an apocalypse he indirectly helped set into motion. He sighs, and then takes a gulp of coffee, trying to think of where to start.

"Well…" he thinks back to what seems like a hundred years ago now, and has to chuckle. "…it's gonna sound like the start of a joke…three doctors, an exterminator, a hacker and her girlfriend and a pawnshop owner all walk into a gas station C-store."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously. We all just kinda…met up. My colleagues and I, we…" Eph trails off for a moment at the thought of Nora again – and Jim Kent, his best friend, who didn't live past that night. One nick one the cheek, that was all it took. They cut his face open to get at the one white worm they saw -- not knowing that it was already too late by then. A flood of emotions hit Eph all at once, including some residual anger at Fet. While Eph and Nora labored in denial, Fet went ahead and shot him - and Jim died before they had a chance to say a proper goodbye. At the time, he was ready to kill Fet himself just for that. But Eph forces himself to recover quickly, sniffing it all back.

"Yeah, we were at the medical supply across the street looking for UV lights. That's actually where we ran into Fet. He was doing the same thing. Guess we all figured out around the same time that UV was the best weapon we had against the Strigoi."

Petey makes a confused face. "The what?" she asks, and suddenly, Eph realizes that most people in the world still had no clue about the true nature of the "plague." Had he not met Professor Setrakian and seen the ghastly, ancient truth with his own eyes, Eph would still be at the CDC, working himself to death to try and create some kind of vaccine. But he knew the truth now – that the only _real_ cure was to kill The Master.

And now he had to try and convince Petey of that same truth. "That's, uh…I guess that's the old, Eastern European name for them: 'Strigoi.' Another name would be…vampires."

"Oh…okay. I just never heard that word before. I mean, _I've_ been calling them vampires, just because I didn't know what else to call them."

"Well, that's exactly what they are once they turn," he says, and Petey does a double-take. For a moment they look at each other in a silent continuation of the conversation: _"wait…are you saying what it **sounds** like you're saying?"_ and Eph silently replying, _"that's **exactly** what I'm saying."_

Petey sits back in her chair, staring hard at him. "Wait a second. So you're saying these are _real_ vampires…like _vampires_ -vampires. Like 'Dracula' and 'Twilight' and all that Anne Rice shit _…those_ kinda vampires?"

"Well, you've seen 'em for yourself. They're nothing like fuckin' 'Twilight.' They don't sparkle and listen to coffee-house rock. But yeah, they're very real. They go all the way back to the beginning of recorded history, and probably farther than that. And a virus is how they make more of themselves. _That's_ what was on the RegisAir flight. Every single person on that flight had been bitten by –" Eph shakes his head a bit, listening to himself tell the tale and realizing how ridiculous it sounds. "They'd been stung by a Master vampire, who was hiding in the cargo bay. He killed most of the passengers by the time the plane landed…but it only takes _one_ carrier or _one_ slip-up on our part to spread a disease. We had _four_ survivors, and a _ton_ of slip-ups."

Petey stares back at him, and Eph has a hard time reading her – so he waits for the inevitable, incredulous reaction as she gets up from the table and starts pacing around, taking it all in. Then finally, she turns back to Eph.

"You're really not kidding," she says, serious as cancer.

"No. I'm really not kidding," he replies, just as serious. "And I know where you are, trust me. I was there, too, when this all started. I didn't buy any of that mythical shit. I was sure it was a disease that could be cured by modern medicine. But I've seen things since then that just _…defy_ science. The kind of shit that changes your reality and requires that you believe in things that just _should **not**_ exist…and yet, they do _…they do._ They've been here the whole time. And now, if we can't figure out how to beat them, they'll take over the entire world."

Petey blinks at him, stunned – and now even more scared. "And what's Fet got to do with all this?"

"Well, he's the one who figured out that The Master and all the Strigoi are using the huge network of tunnels and space underneath the city to nest and move around in. He's working with Councilwoman Feraldo now, helping her and what's left of the NYPD. Y'know, for a guy who catches rats for a living, he really…he really knows his shit," Eph admits, and Petey has to grin.

"Has he bored you to death yet with his stories about all the buildings?" she asks – and Eph cracks up, nodding.

"Dude's like a walking Wikipedia on New York," he replies. "And he's hell with a piece of rebar. Pretty handy with explosives, too."

"Oh, god, seriously? He's blowing shit up? Must be in his glory," Petey says, chuckling, incredulous and delighted at the same time. Then it fades, leaving the two of them just staring at each other again.

"So…where is he now? Is he okay?" she asks.

"As far as I know, he's fine, but honestly, I haven't seen him in…a while. We all ended up crashing here after what happened at that C-store. But I had to leave for a while. I was trying to get the CDC to listen to me about all this…and I tried to get my son out of the city before the travel cut-off."

"You have a kid here?"

"No…I mean, yeah, but he's not staying here. He's, uh…he's with his mother," he says, ending it at that.

"Oh," Petey says, getting the distinct feeling that she shouldn't press him on that particular subject. "Well, do you know how I can find Fet now? Would Feraldo know where he's staying at?"

"Yeah, she knows. We'll head over to Safe Streets HQ tomorrow and find out where he's at."

"Okay. Sounds good," she says, sitting back down to finish her coffee. They stay quiet for a while, just letting all that truth sink in. Then Eph gets up, taking their empty mac and cheese containers to the trash can.

"So you never did answer my question…why didn't Fet tell us about you?" he asks, and Petey shrugs.

"He's not exactly big on sharing, y'know…about personal stuff. Especially when it comes to the subject of family. Technically, we're half-siblings. I didn't even know I had a brother until he got in contact with me a few years back. I kept calling him after all this started, but I couldn't get a hold of him. And pretty soon after that, there was no way of contacting anybody here. So once people started getting sick in Philly, I just decided to go for it, try to find him."

Eph nods. "Well…hopefully we can get you guys together tomorrow," he says, and Petey nods too. She gulps down the rest of her coffee and gets up, walking over to him.

"Listen, thanks for your help. I appreciate it. Seems most people are just out for themselves now, so it's nice to meet someone who isn't," she says, and all Eph can do is smile thinly, not really feeling like he deserves the complement.

Then Petey gestures toward the back. "I'm gonna take a much-needed shower and go back to bed, I think. Wake me up when you're ready to go."

Eph nods again. "'Night."

"'Night," she replies, and then disappears into the back of the building. Eph clears the table and walks up the stairs to the second level, plopping down on the thrift-store couch, staring up at the open skylight – thinking about the next day, and what he was going to say to the Professor and Fet – turning the decision over and over in his head.

Would he save the world – or just save his son?

 

* * *

 

_Olympian Club_

 

Abraham Setrakian sits at the table in the club's kitchen, stirring honey into his tea – the spoon making pretty tinkling noises as it hits the sides of the mug. He can smell the vegetable soup simmering away on the stove _…just about done._ Everything's quiet, the place is warm and sort-of cozy, even for a more industrial-looking kitchen. So he closes his eyes for a moment, and can almost imagine he's back in his apartment in Harlem, on some other ordinary day before all this started.

But it's not some ordinary day. No day has been ordinary since the RegisAir flight landed at JFK. Abraham rubs the bridge of his nose, trying to massage away the headache that's been bothering him all day – due to lack of proper sleep, general age-related problems and the strain of staring at the Lumen's pages day in and day out. So much information was contained in the silver-covered tome, but so far, he wasn't learning anything he didn't already know: exposure to the sun, silver, even eclipses – it was all old news at this point.

Abraham also feels the increasing impatience of those around him. Even Mister Quinlan, his constant companion of late and partner in translating the Lumen's varying ancient languages – even he, who understood better than anyone the importance of playing the long game, was becoming antsy. Itchy to act. Anxious to do something other than sit around in a cushy living room and stare at a book all day. But Abraham just couldn't get to that same place in his head now. Not after what happened at Bolivar's theater, when he confronted The Master.

Along with Ephraim Goodweather and his young son Zach, they cleverly busted out every single window to let in as much sunlight as they could, forcing The Master outside. They watched him burn, watched his flesh smoke and heard his agonized screams – but The Master still managed to get away before Abraham could strike the death blow with the silver sword that once belonged to The Master himself. Never before in all his years of hunting had Abraham ever seen anything like it – a Strigoi choosing to endure prolonged exposure to the sun. It shook his faith in everything he thought he knew so well. It threw off his inner compass, making him unsure of any decision he made now.

Abraham takes a few sips of tea and then closes his eyes again, resting his head in his hands, speaking softly to himself. "What do I do, Miriam? A crossroads sits before me…and I'm not sure which way to go now. I have no one to counsel me but you, my Dear One. I wish you were still here…I miss you…so very much," he says, with a labored breath. Abraham feels tears backing up behind his eyes, ready to flow for his long-departed wife. His normally well-hidden grief takes the opportunity to break through and be fully felt – and he's about to allow it, about to let himself have a good cry for once.

But then he hears the kitchen door swinging open and shut. Abraham covers quickly, wiping his face with his fingerless gloves and then getting up from the table. He clears his dishes, puts them in the sink and shuts off the low flame under the pot of soup as Quinlan appears in his peripheral vision.

"Just needed a cup of tea and a moment's rest for my eyes. I'll be right along," he says.

"Fet is here," Quinlan replies. "He's rather…agitated, about something."

"Mister Fet is always agitated about something."

"I think something has happened…but he refuses to speak to the likes of me," Quinlan says, and Abraham rolls his eyes. Fet was being downright juvenile in his treatment of Mister Quinlan – and Abraham has to admit he's worried that Fet will push things too far. If there was one thing they couldn't afford, it was another enemy – especially one as formidable as The Born.

"I feel I must apologize for Mister Fet's behavior. He sometimes takes the smart-ass New Yorker attitude a bit too far," he offers, but Quinlan just looks back at him, as unfazed as ever.

"You are not responsible for anyone's behavior but your own, Professor. I've encountered many like him over the centuries, and endured far worse treatment, believe me," he replies.

"Yes…I'm sure you have. Well then, let's see what he has to say," Abraham says, walking past Quinlan and out the door.

They find Fet pacing back and forth in the main parlor, where paperwork on the Lumen sits strewn about on tables and the big desk – everything laid out except the book itself, which Abraham made sure to store in a locked safe behind a perimeter of UV lights when he couldn't keep his own eyes on it.

"What's going on?" Abraham asks, and Fet walks right up to him, ready to talk when he spots Quinlan standing right behind the old man like a shadow. Fet clams up and steps back, defiantly folding his arms across his broad chest. Abraham huffs with frustration, in no mood to play "Dad" to a bratty son he never asked for.

"Mister Fet…whether you like it or not, Mister Quinlan is part of this fight and he is here to stay. So whatever you have to say, _say it,_ for chrissake. I'm not getting any younger, y'know," he scolds – a tone which Fet responds to despite his best efforts to be a true-blooded, proud, can't-tell-me-anything New Yorker. He glances at Quinlan again, and then rolls his eyes.

"Alright, fine. Last night me and the SEALS, we were clearing out the old City Hall Station area, and guess who we ran into? Our good buddy Eichhorst," he says – and both Abraham and Quinlan's skeptical expressions change. They draw in closer, focused on Fet's words.

"They wouldn't let me go in there with 'em, so when I spotted the Nazi bastard I just told 'em to stay on him. They trailed him to Chinatown, to this old church that has a crypt underneath. I told 'em to abort once he went in, but they didn't listen. By the time I got there, I was only able to get two of 'em out alive. The Master took the rest…including the Team Leader," Fet says, his festering anger and guilt over his part in it bubbling up again – so he turns away from Setrakian and Quinlan so they won't see him getting emotional.

"Those guys walked right into a slaughter…and now the G's pulling out of the city altogether. No more SEALS, no more nothin'. They've written us off, Professor. They still have _no clue_ what's really goin' on. They don't get that this is exactly where they _need_ to be!"

Abraham takes it all in, his eyes unfocused for a moment – then he turns to Quinlan, who gives him a stern, unblinking stare that he then directs at Fet. "Did I not tell you to alert me if you found The Master? Now we have lost _yet another_ opportunity to eliminate him."

Fet's eyes flash with new anger at that. "Oh, and you're layin' that at _my_ feet?" he says, taking a step toward him, which Quinlan matches. "Even if I _wanted_ your help, which I _don't,_ there was no time to leave 'em and go be your fuckin' chauffeur. We had to move."

"As soon as you laid eyes on the German, you should have _known_ it was a trap. You should have aborted right then and there, and then gone back with _us._ Then your centurions would still be alive, and The Master would be dead," Quinlan says, with his own unique tone that implies calm, fury and blame all at the same time.

"You fuckin' prick…who the fuck do you think you are, comin' at _me_ like that?" Fet fires back. "Oh, yeah, everything's so simple and easy when you're armchair quarterbackin' after the fact, but when you're in the middle of it, and you're dealin' with the likes of fuckin' Eichhorst? There's no predicting anything. All we could do was go for it…and we did!"

Quinlan blinks at him with his inner eyelid, knowing full well how disturbing it is for humans to see. Then he tips his chin up at Fet in a haughty gesture of superiority as he lays down the gauntlet for him.

"Yes, you did…and look at where it's gotten you."

At that instant, Setrakian feels time slow to a crawl as he watches a livid Fet take a swing at Quinlan with one of his powerful arms and a sledgehammer-like fist. But all that strength counts for very little against The Born, who moves with the speed of – Setrakian can't even complete the thought. He can't think of anything to compare him to, he's so goddamned fast.

Before he or Fet realizes what's happening, Quinlan's behind Fet, with that same muscled arm now twisted behind him. Quinlan then hits him with a kidney punch, forcing Fet down to the floor – keeping him pinned there with a knee in the small of his back. Fet squirms and struggles like a wild animal to get free, but Quinlan just presses his knee down harder and gives Fet's twisted arm a painful yank upward.

"Get the fuck off me, you fuckin' half-breed suckhead! _Get off!_ " Fet shouts, and Quinlan bends his upper body down to speak in Fet's ear, annoyingly calm.

"You are far more of a liability than an asset, Mister Fet. I'd slice your head off right here and now but I'm not sure you're even worth the effort, or the mess I'd have to clean up afterwards. I can promise you this, though – if you continue to get in my way, I will do _exactly_ that, no matter _what_ the Professor says."

_"Enough!"_

Both Quinlan and Fet look up to see Setrakian glaring at them – his silver cane-sword drawn, with the pointy end dangerously close to Quinlan's neck. "Mister Quinlan…let him go," the Professor says, enunciating each word with a seriousness that makes Quinlan think twice about crossing him – and he isn't exactly sure why. No human should be of any concern to him at all, but Setrakian radiates an experience, tenacity and a will so indomitable that Quinlan can't help but respect it – if not his taste in friends.

So Quinlan does as he's told, and releases his iron grip on Fet's arm as he stands up and takes a step back. Fet scrambles up to standing, holding his now sore-as-hell, twisted shoulder. Then he opens his mouth, about to launch right back into the fray with some stupid, belligerent comment when Setrakian cuts him off.

" _Mister Fet!_ Whatever you're about to say _…don't._ "

"Are you seriously gonna keep buddyin' up with this fuckin' tool? He was one twist away from pulling my fuckin' arm off!"

"Which he wouldn't have been prompted to do had you kept your big Brooklyn mouth _shut!_ " Setrakian yells at him, shutting Fet right down. Quinlan can't help but crack a grin at that – which Fet sees, his eyes narrowing with new rage – and embarrassment.

"Oh, yeah, laugh it up, asshole. We're gonna have this conversation again real soon, and you won't like how it goes, trust me," Fet says – to which Quinlan simply tips his head to one side, way more amused than threatened.

"Goddammit, Fet! I said _enough!_ If you can't behave like a civilized adult then you need to leave here and not come back!" Setrakian's voice booms – and all Fet can do is gape at him.

"You're serious."

"Do I sound like I'm joking?"

Fet takes a moment to check - and then collect himself, his Brooklyn bravura gradually retaking control from his stung, sensitive side. He rolls his sore shoulder and is about to leave when Setrakian says,

"Now if you would, take us to this crypt. I want to see it for myself."

"What? Why? Place is cleared out, there's nothin' left," Fet replies, but Setrakian's already getting his coat on.

"There may be some indication as to where they've relocated to. It's worth a look. Besides…I think we _all_ need to get some air," he says, pushing past Quinlan to grab his hat and the cane part of his sword. He leaves the bickering children in his wake as he storms out to the elevator.

"Sometime tonight would be good, gentlemen," he calls - and Fet and Quinlan exchange one last threatening glare before following him out.


	4. Chapter 4

**_Chapter 4_ **

_Chapel of the Blessed Sacrament_

_Chinatown_

 

Fet pulls up outside the small church and hops out of the truck, while Setrakian climbs out of the passenger side. Quinlan follows him out, having chosen to ride in the back of the truck for the sake of keeping the peace. For his own part, Fet makes sure to stay a few steps ahead, wanting to keep as much distance between himself and Quinlan as possible. Fet rolls his shoulder, wincing a bit – knowing he was going to have to spend the rest of the night with a bag of ice on it, popping a crap-ton of anti-inflammatories to keep it from becoming a problem. He makes a mental note to kill Quinlan at the first opportunity – but of course, that item had been on his to-do list since they first met.

_Get milk, bread, toilet paper, make more silver grenades, kill Quinlan. Yeah._

Of course, it was the actual _doing_ part that he had to admit would be a pretty big problem, especially after Quinlan's show of force – although even Fet understood that it _wasn't_ force Quinlan was actually demonstrating. It was restraint.

_If the half-breed really wanted to break my arm, he would've done it._

But he didn't, which makes Fet all the angrier – and he grumbles to himself as Setrakian quickens his pace to catch up to him, the old man's breathing laboring with the accelerated pace.

"So by the time you got here, the SEALS were already inside?" he asks.

"Yeah," Fet replies, as he uses a key to slice through the crime-scene seal that NYPD put on the doors after removing the bodies. Fet turns on his flashlight as they all enter the pitch-black space, the heavy wooden doors creaking as they close behind them, shutting with a hard _clunk!_

"Crypt's this way," Fet says, about to lead them – but Quinlan dashes ahead, not needing any extra light to see or any direction from anyone to know where to go. Setrakian follows him and Fet takes a second to breathe deeply and look to the heavens.

"Dear Lord…please, _please_ help me resist the temptation to pop off a silver grenade in Borno's fuckin' face. Thanks. Amen," he mutters, as he descends into the crypt – a much bigger space than the chapel above it suggests, branching off into several tunnels. Fet stays close to the Professor with the flashlight as they move slowly through – while Quinlan disappears in a blur, off to who-knows-where without a word.

"Well, he's a big one for teamwork, ain't he? Just disappears like a fart in the wind," Fet says, and Setrakian just huffs at him.

"Mister Fet…give it a rest. For my sake if nothing else," Setrakian says, exasperated.

"I'm just sayin', does he plan to tell us, or at least _you,_ where the hell he's going?"

"I am not Mister Quinlan's minder, any more than I am yours. I trust he'll tell us if he finds anything important."

"If you say so."

At that, they come across several drying pools of blood – some with grotesque bits of innards here and there, which both Setrakian and Fet make repulsed faces at.

"You saw Eichhorst here?" Setrakian says.

"No, not down here…the Hitler-lovin' prick was outside, just waiting to rub it in my face. Think he was a little disappointed though, since I was the only one who showed. I think he was hoping you would be there too," Fet replies, as Setrakian wanders through the space at the edge of the flashlight's reach.

"Y'know, that reminds me…the guys were saying that they were hearing some weird noise or interference or something, just before the attack. Something that was painful to hear. It messed with the coms, too. I'm thinkin' it must've immobilized them, 'cause I mean, these guys wouldn't just _let_ themselves get taken out."

Setrakian turns to Fet at that. "Noise…?" he repeats, his mind suddenly racing through all of the information that he and Quinlan had translated from the Lumen so far.

"Immobilizing noise… 'the silent voice of The Master'…" he mutters.

"What?"

"Something we learned from the Lumen. The sound…it could be what the book was referring to."

"Is that important?"

"Possibly…possibly…" Setrakian mutters, as he continues down the tunnel – and they soon come across the chamber where the SEAL Team Leader was last seen.

"Well, I'm no audio expert or anything, but if it's a trackable signal we might be able to follow it, right?" Fet offers. The Professor's eyes brighten at the idea – and at Fet for coming up with it.

"Perhaps," Setrakian says, with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes and a hint of a grin – signs of the old Strigoi hunter getting his groove back. Fet grins too, relieved to feel some approval finally directed his way. But it doesn't last long as Quinlan returns then, from wherever he was.

"Anything?" Setrakian asks, and Quinlan shakes his head.

"I followed the trail as far as I could but it went cold a few blocks from here," he says, looking down at the carnage left behind. He bends down and runs a finger through it, closely examining the blood. A stinging remark about the unnecessary loss of life sits on the tip of his tongue, ready to launch at Fet – but he catches himself, deciding it's probably better to just keep quiet.

Then his ears prick up, sensing another presence around them. He holds up a silencing hand to Setrakian and Fet as he stands up, turning his head in the direction of what he senses.

"So the errand boy has returned," he says, summoning the presence forward. Setrakian and Fet look to the shadows behind Quinlan as a figure steps into the harsh illumination of Fet's flashlight – an unassuming-looking older man with gray hair, wearing a clean, crisp suit and a polite smile. Fet automatically draws his gun on the man they had all come to know and loathe – The Master's number one, Thomas Eichhorst – who just makes an amused face at him.

"Really, Mister Fet? Always with the guns, it's so very tiresome. I'm quite sure you're no better a shot than your grandfather was," he says with his usual articulate, genial tone that contradicts his true nature. He takes slow, deliberate steps around the group, his intense stare moving from Fet to Setrakian.

"A230385," he says, preferring to call Setrakian by the number he was given at the concentration camp where they first met, half a century ago. "How goes your study of the Lumen? Have you figured out how to kill us all yet?"

Setrakian just eyes him back with a cool animosity, honed over decades. "The Lumen is _most_ enlightening. I am learning all kinds of new things," he says, knowing it's not true – but he's not about to let Eichhorst have a single inch – and more importantly, The Master, who he knows is listening through him.

"Care to share with the group?" Eichhorst asks.

"No, not really. But believe me, when the Lumen has revealed all its secrets, you'll be one of the first to know," Setrakian replies, and Eichhorst chuckles as his gaze then moves to Quinlan, and lingers there as the humor fades.

"We missed you earlier, Invictus…we were hoping you would be here, so we could watch you fail yet again at the one job you have," he taunts, a mocking smile spread across his face. "You might want to make sure that Mister Fet hasn't set anymore of his explosive traps this time."

"Is there some point to all this blathering you're doing? Other than being annoying," Quinlan replies.

Eichhorst smiles wide at him, and then closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them again, their color has changed to a bright reddish-orange with a cat-like pupil – the eyes of The Master, using his psychic link to take control of Eichhorst's body. Instead of the smooth, pleasant human voice, a low and otherworldly one comes out of his mouth.

"As you can all see, I am quite unharmed, even after your feeble attempt to bring a building down on my head. And these efforts to use military force are just as useless. Do you think I have survived this long only to be destroyed by the likes of you?" The Master directs at Fet and Setrakian, before turning his gaze to Quinlan.

"And you…what is to be your next brilliant move? Over a thousand years and you still have not managed to kill me. I wonder what it is you are waiting for?"

"Patience…it is indeed a virtue," Quinlan replies.

" _Is_ it patience you are demonstrating? Or merely incompetence?" The Master says, and despite his best efforts, Quinlan is unable to cover his gut reaction completely – a slight twitching around the eyes makes The Master grin with satisfaction.

"You should be ruling this world _with me,_ Invictus…not crawling around in the shadows, lying down with the cattle. You are unique…and the last of your kind. You could be so much more than you are."

The ego-stroking words spill over Quinlan, almost irresistible at first – but as the nanoseconds pass he feels the manipulation behind them, working to get under his skin. "You are not ruling anything yet…and _you_ are the one who is hiding in the shadows, not I," he replies. "So you can peddle your lies elsewhere."

"Yes…I suppose it is pointless to reason with you. You have made your choice, however poorly," The Master counters. "But I know of one who will be quite interested in what I have to offer. I think he will be smarter than you."

"What're you talking about?" Quinlan asks, but The Master just grins at them all – and then disappears from Eichhorst's body in the blink of an eye. Quinlan draws his sword and goes for the killing blow – but Eichhorst is more of a match for Quinlan, able to move with the same blinding speed. He flashes by them in a blur, leaving only a rush of wind behind. Fet and Setrakian exchange confused looks before looking to Quinlan.

"What did he mean by that? Who is he talking about?" Setrakian says, but Quinlan can only shake his head.

"All I know is we're wasting our time here," he says, and flies past them both to get out.

* * *

_Special Command Center / Safe Streets Initiative HQ_

_Cadman Plaza East – Brooklyn_

 

Eph and Petey walk into the lobby of what was the city's Office of Emergency Management – now serving as Councilwoman Justine Feraldo's office, and a command center for the NYPD and all Safe Streets Initiative's operations. As soon as they get in the door, though, two young NYPD rookies take a protective stance at the entrance to the main hall.

Knowing the deal, Eph grabs the lanyard around his neck and shows the guys his badge – but they already know who he is. Everybody there knew him – he's not the one they're suspiciously eyeing.

"Sorry, Doc," one of the rookies says. "You know the deal, no unauthorized personnel in the HQ."

"Yeah, of course," Eph replies politely. "But you guys know Fet, right?"

"What about him?"

"This is his sister. She just got here yesterday from Philly. She really needs to get a hold of him. I thought Justine could help her out."

Both rookies turn their gazes to Petey and the blue locks underneath the beanie hat she's wearing. "Didn't know Fet had a sister," the rookie says.

"Yeah, well, apparently nobody did," Petey replies before Eph can.

"You got any ID?"

Petey digs in her coat pocket to retrieve her wallet. She pulls out her Pennsylvania driver's license and shows it to them. Both rookies do the usual look back and forth between the card and her face several times.

"Guess your folks didn't pass the blue-hair gene to Fet, huh?" the rookie jokes.

"Nah…I got lucky," Petey throws back at him, and he lets out a snotty laugh.

"If you say so," he counters. Then he looks to Eph. "Lemme call upstairs, see what they wanna do. You guys wait here."

The rookies go back to their desk and the point man makes the call. Only a few seconds later, he waves Eph and Petey through the metal detector. When they get upstairs to the main control center, Petey's mouth drops open a bit at the sheer size of the space and the amount of activity going on. People swarm everywhere like worker bees, coordinating the many Safe Streets operations going on all over the city. Monitors on the far wall show at least a dozen teams in different buildings, sweeping them for Strigoi and killing all they find.

"Wow," she breathes, just as an imposing senior NYPD officer walks up to them – Captain Frank Kowalski, Feraldo's right hand. Eph reaches out and shakes his hand and they nod at each other in the typical manly way.

"Doc," Frank says.

"Captain," Eph replies. "This is Fet's sister, Petey."

Kowalski looks her up and down – not with any sort of judgment, just the normal, hard once-over that only law enforcement can make intimidating for anyone. Then he offers his hand to her as well, and she gives him the same surprisingly firm handshake.

"Hi…good to meetcha," she says.

"Likewise," he replies, and then turns, waving at them to follow him back toward the glass-walled conference room. "Councilwoman's on a conference call with the Mayor and the Governor, but she'll be done in a few minutes. You can wait in here. Feel free to grab some coffee."

"Thanks," Eph says, as they enter and then Kowalski ducks right back out, shutting the door. Eph sets his bag down and takes his hat off as Petey takes a stroll around the long conference table.

"Wow…I feel so important. Like I've been admitted to the VIP lounge at the best club in the city," she jokes, as she stares out the glass at the sea of worker bees. "But I guess you must be used to this, huh?"

"What do you mean?" Eph says, and she turns to look at him.

"Y'know, the special treatment…the kind only important people get," she replies, and Eph chuckles at her as he sits on the edge of the table.

"Yeah, well, 'special' doesn't always mean good, y'know," he says. "I mean, I'm not exactly the most popular guy in the world right now. Most people still think I was involved in some kinda coverup at the CDC. Either that or I'm single-handedly responsible for releasing the plague. So if by 'special' you mean getting fired from my job and the government turning me into public enemy number one, then yeah. I'm special, alright."

"Feraldo's people don't seem to be treating you like public enemy number one."

"They tolerate me because I have some useful skills. That's all," Eph says, and Petey studies him – seeing the dejected, unfocused look in his eyes and getting the heavy, self-loathing vibe of someone carrying around an incredible amount of grief and guilt.

"Well…I only met you yesterday, so maybe I'm not the best judge. But something tells me the Councilwoman isn't the type to suffer fools gladly, know what I mean? So I think maybe you need to stop being so hard on yourself, Doc. Or at least stop trying to hoard _all_ the guilt for the current shit state of the world. Seems to me there's plenty of blame to go around," Petey says.

Eph seems to refocus at that, looking at her directly – and Petey's surprised to see the gloss of tears forming in his eyes. She's about to move over to him when the door opens and Justine Feraldo breezes in, a gust of can-do attitude and hard-earned confidence following behind her.

"Hi, guys," she says and Eph straightens up – clearing his throat and rubbing his face to stave off the anguish that was about to rear its ugly head.

"Justine…this is Fet's sister, Petey. She just made her way up from Philly. I was hoping you could tell us where Fet and Professor Setrakian are holing up so we can get them together," Eph says.

"Yeah, sure," Justine responds – she shakes Petey's hand, and both women grin at the strength in each other's grip.

"You probably know this already, but your brother is awesome…I mean, weird, but awesome," Justine says.

"Yeah, that about sums him up," Petey replies, with a smile.

"So, Philly, huh? Where'd you enter?"

"Red Hook."

"Oh…how'd you get past the checkpoint, if you don't mind me askin'?" Justine asks, understandably concerned that security's gotten sloppy. Petey feels her face immediately heating up with embarrassment, not expecting to have to think about what she did ever again, much less talk about it – and she finds that she can't. She can't make the words come out. All she can do is look at Justine, and answer her that way.

A silent conversation transpires between the two women then, with every shameful thing that Petey can't say conveyed by her eyes. Justine's expression slowly forms into one of shock – and then sympathy as she pulls Petey into a hug.

"Oh, honey…I'm so sorry," she says. Petey tears up as Justine pulls back and looks at her just like a mom would, directly in the eyes, with care and compassion.

"Well…I knew what I was getting into," Petey replies.

"That doesn't matter. That kinda shit is _never_ okay. I won't have it happening here…not with _my_ people," she says, with the same determination that got her to her current position. "Now I'll have Frank get you the safehouse address. You're welcome to stay there too, as long as you need to. We'll set you up with an ID and all."

"Thank you," Petey says.

"I only ask one thing."

"What's that?"

"That you contribute to the cause."

"Oh…well, I don't have much money…"

"No-no-no, hon. Money's not the issue," Justine says. "The city's one-percenters are footing most of the bill for all this. What I need is whatever _you_ can do. What was your job before all this started?"

"I'm a nurse," Petey replies, and Justine's eyes light up like she just won the lottery.

"Seriously? Oh, thank Christ! We're in desperate need of decent medical staff to take care of our people. Lot of 'em are coming back from these raids with injuries. We really need you."

"Yeah, sure…of course. Whatever I can do," Petey says, and Justine hugs her again.

"Bless you," she says, before moving onto Eph – and even though she only comes up to Eph's shoulders in height, the way the Councilwoman carries herself makes her seem ten feet tall. She puts a gentle hand on his arm and speaks softly enough that Petey has to strain to hear her.

"Eph…we all heard what happened with the train. Is there anything I can do to help? I'm just…I'm so sorry about Nora and your son. Please, tell me what we can do," she says, and Eph smiles down at her, thinly.

"Thanks…but there's really nothing to be done. At least not right now," he says. She pulls him into the same kind of motherly hug she gave Petey, and Eph can't help but melt into it, not realizing until just then how much he misses physical contact and the warm comfort of family.

"Well, if you think of anything…anything at all, just say the word," Justine finishes, pulling back from him.

"All we can do is keep going the way we have been. After I have a chance to consult with the Professor and Fet, we can all come up with a new strategy. But I don't think they even know what happened on the train yet, so I really have to talk to them first."

"Alright," Justine says. "My teams are gonna need more toxin, though. A lot more."

"Yeah, of course. I'll cook it up as soon as I get back to Red Hook."

Justine nods. "Hang in there, Doc," she says – and with another warm smile to Petey, she breezes back out, leaving Eph and Petey exchanging grins.

"Wow…she's even cooler than I thought she'd be," Petey says.

"The coolest," Eph agrees.

* * *

_Olympian Club_

 

Eph and Petey arrive at the Olympian Club after a side trip to Herald Square, to procure some clean clothes from the abandoned and already-looted Macy's department store. Eph parks the taxicab in the alley next to the building and they get out, both looking around for any possible trouble. The entire block looks deserted, nothing moving except dust devils of trash winding down the street and the dark, toxic smoke of a car fire on the next block.

Eph tries the front door of the club, surprised when it opens with no trouble. "That's weird…they don't even bother to lock the door?" he mutters. He takes out his 9mm and checks the chamber – then he looks to Petey, gesturing for her to arm herself. She pulls her machete out and holds it low as they slip inside.

The posh-looking lobby with its marble floors, leather couches and bronze statues looks a lot more like the entrance to a grand old hotel than an athletic club. The chandeliers hanging down provide some light, but not enough to see everywhere. There's still a dimness permeating the space – the kind typical of old men's clubs, indicative of their secrecy and exclusivity.

"Professor??" Eph calls out, his voice bouncing off the marble and the walls, echoing everywhere – which doesn't give Eph a lot of confidence. The door should definitely have been locked – or there should have been some NYPD there securing the place. But it's as if they aren't even worried about people getting in, and Eph has to wonder why.

"Do they have the run of the whole building?" Petey asks in a whisper, and all Eph can do is shrug.

"No idea," he replies. "Just keep your eyes open. Something seems really off here."

They find the elevators and hit the buttons for every floor, not knowing which one the Professor and Fet might be on – if they're there at all.

* * *

Several floors up, Quinlan pores over the Professor's handwritten notes on everything they managed to translate from the Lumen as he waits for the Professor and Fet to join him. Quinlan heard them stirring and awake, but they still had not emerged from the rooms they were sleeping in. Who knew how long it would be before they were actually ready to return to work, since the Professor still had to tend to that annoying human need to eat first thing in the morning. Quinlan had noted early on the Professor's especially prickly mood if he tried engaging him in conversation before he'd had his cup of that disgusting brown liquid _…what was it called again? Oh…coffee._

Quinlan sighs impatiently as he stares at the writings and the drawings, his concentration shot. He couldn't quiet The Master's words to him from the night before. They somehow managed to find a place in the back of his mind to linger and fester. And even though he knows it's what The Master wants – for him to doubt his course of action – Quinlan finds himself doing exactly that.

He turns his head in the direction of the room where the Professor kept the Lumen locked up, the wheels turning in his head. Opening the safe wasn't the issue – he could do that in a few seconds. The UV lights were the main issue. Even though he wasn't entirely Strigoi, the damage the ultra-concentrated light would do to him would be lethal if he were exposed long enough.

Then there was the other issue – crossing the line with Professor Setrakian. If he took the Lumen, it would be a betrayal that the old man would likely never forgive. _Nor should he..._ if the roles were reversed, Quinlan knows he certainly wouldn't. But then that thought leads to another disturbing one – why he was so concerned about it.

Thinking it through forced him to admit to himself that he thought of Setrakian not just as an equal – but also as a friend. Or at least the closest thing to it that Quinlan had ever experienced – and the prospect of losing that new friendship bothered him. Bottom line: whether he wanted to admit it or not, Quinlan had broken one of his only rules for himself – no emotional attachments.

A surge of frustration builds in him, fueled by a churning mess of feelings that he hated experiencing – because their power was one of the only things that could truly unbalance him. Frustration boils over into rage, and Quinlan shoves all the papers off the desk, sending them flying everywhere. Not nearly satisfied, he grabs one of the expensive designer chairs and is about to toss it through the nearest window when his ears perk up.

_The elevator's moving._

Knowing that the only people who even knew they were there were _already_ there, and that Feraldo's people never disturbed them at the Professor's request, it could only mean one thing – that coincidence had just gift-wrapped and hand-delivered an opportunity to vent. Quinlan puts the chair down and moves over to the elevator, backing up against the wall next to the doors. He hears the motor slowing and he flexes his hands, making fists and then relaxing them, ready to grab whoever steps out.

The elevator chime lets out a refined _ding!_ as the doors open – but no one emerges immediately. Making a puzzled face, Quinlan waits a couple more seconds, preparing to rush in when he hears a man's voice call out.

"Professor? Fet? You guys here?"

The sound of the voice makes Quinlan hesitate, because it wasn't the voice of an angry combatant. The voice was ordinary, civilized – one could even call it friendly – but he was unaware of any other associates the Professor might have. Then Quinlan sees the man appear, taking slow, careful steps out of the elevator with a 9mm in a loose grip in his hand.

"Hello?? Guys??" Eph calls as he ventures out farther. His head turns from side to side – and Quinlan makes the decision to rush him before he gets a chance to turn around.

Eph gasps as a solid arm hooks his neck from behind and locks his head in place, dragging him a few steps away from the elevator. "Drop the gun," Quinlan says in his ear – and Eph, for all his recent training in Strigoi-slaying badassery, just about soils himself. He has no idea who the guy is – but his voice is low, weird and scary. It's clear he's much stronger and he's not messing around.

Quinlan tightens the headlock when Eph doesn't immediately submit. "Drop it now or I break your neck."

"Okay, okay…take it easy," Eph stutters, about to do what he's told when a female voice shouts from behind them.

" _Hey!_ Asshole! Let him go!"

Quinlan turns his head slightly, suddenly realizing it's the first time he's heard a woman's voice in quite a while. The sound instantly appeals to him, even though it's not particularly friendly. Quinlan drags Eph with him as he turns them both around to lay eyes on Petey, who stands there in an admirable fighting stance with a machete in her hands.

And when Petey lays eyes on Quinlan, getting a good look at his mutated, half-Strigoi features, her mouth drops open in shock. "Ffffffuck…" she mutters under her breath.

"Petey, drop it…just drop it!" Eph struggles to warn her. She glances at Eph, his terrified eyes pleading with her as he lets the 9mm drop out of his hand and onto the floor. Eph then puts his hands up in the universal 'don't kill me' gesture, gagging a bit as Quinlan keeps the headlock tight and stares Petey down, blinking at her with all three eyelids.

Petey swallows hard, scared shitless – and she looks at Eph again, wondering why she's feeling so protective of a guy she only just met yesterday. It occurs to her that she has no obligation toward him – especially risking her own life. But as the seconds pass, she becomes more indignant – she has every right to be there, and every right to slice the thing in half that's choking her new friend, especially given the current state of the world. Quinlan reminds her of every bully she's ever dealt with in her life – and more recently, of every mutant-vampire-monster-freak-Strigoi-whatever _thing_ that's tried to kill her in the last month. The surge of new anger makes her reacquire her grip on the machete.

"You deaf? I said let him go," she says.

"Identify yourself," Quinlan replies.

"You first."

"You are in no position to demand anything."

"Oh, no? What, you think just 'cause I'm a chick I can't fuck you up with this thing? Think again."

"Petey! Just do what he says!" Eph interjects – and Quinlan tips his head at her.

"Your friend is wise. I'd listen to him."

"Last chance. Let him go."

"And if I don't?"

"Then say goodbye to your head," Petey says, the hasty comeback escaping her mouth before she really thinks it through – and Quinlan can't help but grin a little bit at her nerve. People's reactions to him usually fell into two categories: run away or open fire. So to come across a human who actually refused to be intimidated by him – especially a woman – was a rare and intriguing thing.

 _Then again…_ he has no idea who she is or why she and her companion are there. Quinlan suddenly remembers his responsibilities, and number one at the moment is to protect the Professor and the Lumen. He can hear and feel both Eph's and Petey's pulses surging with accelerated pace – he could easily reach Petey with his stinger without having to move at all.

_She would make a very satisfying meal…and the other one for seconds…_

It only takes a few seconds' worth of tense silence for Quinlan to make the decision – and when Petey sees it in his creepy, whitish eyes, she feels her stomach drop. Then everything happens in a blur – Quinlan releases Eph from the headlock, but only to grab him by the back of the neck and slam him into the wall face-first. Stunned, Eph's knees buckle and he drops to the floor, while Quinlan crosses the distance between himself and Petey in an instant.

Petey swings the machete as Quinlan tackles her – she feels it make contact, cutting the skin between his neck and shoulder – but not nearly deep enough. Then the machete falls away in the struggle as Quinlan pins her down, holding her legs still between his knees and her arms down with vice-like grips around her wrists. Petey bucks underneath him uselessly, and tries to scream – but then the terror of seeing the tentacle coming out of his mouth takes her breath away.

Then another voice cuts through the chaos –

 _"_ _Whoa-whoa-_ _ **whoa!**_ _ **STOP!!**_ _"_ Fet yells at the top of his lungs, as he and Professor Setrakian run up on them all. And while Setrakian helps Eph up off the floor, Fet's mouth falls open when he sees the woman Quinlan was about to attack – the woman with blue hair.

"Jesusfuckinchrist… _get off her!_ **_Get off!!_** " Fet shouts as he yanks Quinlan up and off her, shoving him aside. And Quinlan can only watch as Fet snatches the woman up in his arms, hugging her tight, tears of shock – and joy – in his eyes.

"You alright? You alright?" Fet repeats, pulling back from her just enough to cup her face in his hands. Petey looks up at him and nods, but she's tearing up as much as he is – all her adrenaline and fight-or-flight drive suddenly decelerating. Then her heavy breathing turns to nerve-racked laughter as she touches Fet's face like she's never seen it before.

"Jesus…how'd you get here?" he asks, and she just laughs some more.

"Oh, y'know...just decided I'd make a quick hop to the city for dinner and a show," she says, and he laughs along with her, enveloping her in another tight hug.

Still sitting against the wall, Quinlan takes it all in – marveling at Fet, admittedly a hulk of a human, fussing over this woman who just a moment ago was a ball of hostility and violence. But now she looks so tiny and delicate in Fet's huge arms as he kisses her cheeks with loud, smacking noises, and hugs her like she was the most beloved thing in the world. Quinlan stands up as Professor Setrakian approaches him with the other stranger, who's now sporting a bloody nose and a scraped-up forehead.

"Mister Quinlan…this is Doctor Ephraim Goodweather," Setrakian says.

"Doctor Goodweather…?" Quinlan repeats, recognizing the name.

"What the hell's going on here? Who is this? Or _what_ is it?" Eph says, pushing back to keep a healthy distance between them.

"Mister Quinlan is one of The Born…the last of them, actually. A half-human, half-Strigoi hybrid…and a sworn enemy of The Master. I apologize for his hostile reaction, but you understand we cannot be too careful," Setrakian explains. The scientist in Eph takes over at that, and he studies Quinlan's face with new curiosity. Quinlan studies him right back, as Setrakian then moves over to Fet and Petey.

He eyes her with a stern, wary look. "Would you mind introducing us?" he asks.

"Yeah…Professor, this is my little sister, Petey," Fet says.

Quinlan turns to look at them at that, "little sister" being words he was not expecting to hear.

"Petey, this is Professor Abraham Setrakian…aaaand you've already met Quinlan," Fet then says, glaring over at him.

Feeling safe within her brother's protective embrace, Petey musters the courage to look at Quinlan directly – and he returns the gaze, the vibe between them as strong as it is awkward, making the air heavy and tense all around, until Fet squeezes Petey's shoulder and starts to lead her away.

"C'mon, let's, uh…let's getcha settled in," he says – and Eph falls in line behind them while Setrakian hangs back, noticing the mess Quinlan made of his papers.

"I take it that's your handiwork?" he says, and Quinlan just rolls his eyes, busted.

"I'll clean it up," he says, sheepishly.

"Mmm-hmm," Setrakian mutters, and then ambles along after the others.

Suddenly feeling the trickling on his neck, Quinlan runs a hand along the cut Petey made with the machete. He looks at his fingers, stained with the white blood she drew from him – something no one's managed to do in quite some time.

He isn't sure whether to be furious – or fascinated.


	5. Chapter 5

**_Chapter 5_ **

_Olympian Club_

The group gathers in the main sitting room, and Fet keeps his iron grip on Petey, locking her to his hip as they sit down. He makes sure to pick a loveseat so there's only room for the two of them, and Petey doesn't complain – in fact, she accepts it willingly, sitting close to him. He keeps a protective arm around her as he scans the room for Quinlan – making sure he knows exactly where he is. He sees Quinlan take a seat at the bar – removed from them all, but still within earshot, holding a bar towel to the cut Petey made to his neck. But he glances right back at Fet, and both of them narrow their eyes at each other.

Setrakian, meanwhile, sits next to Eph on the couch – wanting to ease the tension in the room, concerned that everyone's gotten off on the wrong foot. "Are you alright, Ephraim?" he asks, with an unusual softness in his tone. Eph just nods, waving it off as he pulls the tissues out of his nose – relieved to see the bleeding's finally stopping.

"We thought you would be safely far away from here by now. Where is Zach…and Dr. Martinez?" Setrakian asks. Then he sees the instant change in Eph's expression – a deadening of his eyes that fills Setrakian with dread.

"Did something happen?" he then asks. Eph nods, feeling everyone's eyes on him – especially those of the thing that nearly broke his face a minute ago. Quinlan's whitish eyes follow him with a laser-like focus, like a guard dog ready to pounce at the first sign of trouble. Eph swallows hard and tries to ignore him as he turns to Setrakian and says,

"Nora is dead."

The words hang in the air above them all like a dark cloud, filling the room with a terrible quiet. Setrakian and Fet exchange shocked looks – shock and then sorrow. Petey watches the news affect her brother, as he lets go of her to lean forward and cover his mouth.

"The train didn't even make it out of the city," Eph continues. "We were ambushed, plain and simple. Must've been at least a hundred Strigoi blocking the tunnel. They forced the train to derail, and I got separated from Nora and Zach. A bunch of those scary-ass spider-walking kids came after me in the car, so then I knew Kelly must've been there, too."

Eph pauses to gauge everyone's reactions – the silence and the wide eyes all around let him know they're all with him. They're all with him even though he's leaving out the reason he got separated from Nora and Zach – because he'd gone to the bar. If he had just used a little more willpower Nora would still be alive, and Zach would still be with him. Tears form and fall from Eph's eyes then – and he doesn't bother to stop them this time. He needs to let at least some of his guilt and grief out – and he needs everyone to see it.

Setrakian leans into him then, placing a gentle, cautious hand on his shoulder. "Did your wife turn them?"

"Only Nora. By the time I found her, it was too late to stop it. The worms were…everywhere. But she was still herself. She said Kelly took Zach with her, but she didn't attack him," Eph says. Setrakian and Fet exchange surprised looks at that – and Quinlan's head moves ever so slightly with extra interest.

"You released Doctor—you released Nora, then?" Setrakian asks.

Eph shakes his head. "No…she did it herself. She touched the third rail before I could stop her. She did what I couldn't."

A long silence follows then, as everyone takes a moment to let the terrible new reality sink in. Setrakian gets up, huffing a little with labored breathing as he digs in his pocket for a bottle of pills – nitroglycerin tablets for chest pain. He struggles with the cap and ends up dropping the bottle, the pills spilling everywhere.

"Goddammit!" he spits. Fet rushes to pick up the mess, and Petey can't help but notice how doting and caring her brother is toward the old man, as Fet guides Setrakian back down onto the couch.

"I got it, Professor. Here," he says, handing him a single tablet, which Setrakian slips under his tongue. "Take it easy now. There you go," Fet says – then he scoops all the pills back into the bottle, and sits back down next to Petey.

Setrakian closes his eyes for a moment, allowing the medicine to do its job and gradually ease the tightness and pain around his ninety-plus-year-old heart – one forced to work long past its expiration date. Finally, after he breathes a few deeper, easier breaths, he speaks again.

"I'm so sorry, Ephraim. Dr. Martinez—Nora—she was…she was a wonderful woman. The kindest of souls. I will miss her…very much."

Eph smiles sadly, nodding. "She was very fond of you, Professor. You too, Fet. She loved you guys." he says. Both Fet and Setrakian return Eph's sad smile, remembering what a bright light Nora was in a world that had gone so dark.

"Now…regarding your son," Setrakian says, turning the conversation back to business. "While it is good that he is still himself, the fact that your wife did _not_ turn him right away is troubling. It means that The Master plans to use him against you…and against you is against _all_ of us."

Eph tries to act like the idea never occurred to him before now. "Okay…but why, though? Why me? Why would he give a shit what I do?"

"It was both _you and I_ who forced him out onto that rooftop. And from what Mister Fet tells me, you've developed a poison that Feraldo's people have been using on the rank-and-file Strigoi," Setrakian says.

"Yeah…Nora and I came up with it," Eph replies. "But it's not working as well as we thought."

"All the same, you haven't given up. You continue to get in his way…to fight alongside us even though you have the most to lose. _That's_ why he's targeting you. So we must all be careful how we proceed now."

Eph swallows hard at the Professor's words, complements that he doesn't throw out lightly – complements he's not sure he deserves. "Any ideas?" he asks, already knowing the answer.

"Perhaps," Setrakian answers, sitting up and leaning forward a bit. "There is a book…an ancient relic that has recently come into my possession. I'm convinced it holds the solution we seek. But we need time to translate the text."

"Who's 'we'?"

"Mister Quinlan and I," Setrakian replies, and Eph glances his way.

" _Him?_ "

"I know he doesn't look it, but Mister Quinlan is over two thousand years old. He is the _only_ one who can aid me in translating the dead languages the Lumen uses."

"The 'Lumen'?"

"The _Occido Lumen._ That is the book's name."

Eph sits back, not entirely faking his disbelief. "So…you're saying you're gonna put all your chips on a magic spell book? I'm sorry, Professor, but you'll have to forgive me if I'm pretty skeptical."

"You can be as skeptical as you like, Doctor. But the Lumen is not something to be ridiculed and dismissed out of hand simply because of its age…or because you do not understand it," Quinlan suddenly interjects – and all heads turn to stare at him as he stands up and approaches them, stopping just inside the inner circle of the ragtag gang of outlaws he's aligned himself with.

"Well, I didn't mean to disrespect your holy relic. I'm just…" Eph finds himself unable to finish the thought, frustration welling up in him all over again. He gets up and paces away, running a hand over his bald head. Setrakian gestures to Quinlan to back off, as he gets up to follow him.

"I know you probably don't think so, but I do understand, Ephraim," he says. "I know the frustration you're feeling. Losing Nora and Zach…it makes you want to act immediately, to do something decisive and harsh. But that is exactly what we must resist. Any hasty action on our part now will only set us back, I guarantee it."

"So what's the alternative, then? What, we just sit around and wait for you to translate the book? And how long's _that_ gonna take?" Eph counters, and Setrakian has no immediate answer – not one that will satisfy, anyway. And watching from his vantage point, listening to Eph's voice, Quinlan realizes that he may have just found a possible ally – someone else who isn't willing to wait for the Professor to regain his nerve.

"I am merely asking you to trust me, Ephraim…please," Setrakian finally says. Eph glances around at everyone else, and decides to let it drop – for now. He goes back to the couch and plops down.

"I don't suppose you guys have anything to eat here, do you? Something that _didn't_ come from an MRE?" he asks.

Fet pipes up then. "Oh, this place is the fuckin' jackpot. C'mon, Doc…think we could all use some breakfast."

"Mister Quinlan and I should get to work," Setrakian says, and Fet just waves him off.

"Yeah, yeah…you kids have fun. Oh! Hey, Professor…is it okay with you if Petey crashes here tonight?"

"Of course."

Petey digs in her back pocket and pulls out her new Safe Streets ID card. "Actually, Councilwoman Feraldo already said I could stay here."

The guys all exchange looks, taking it in with a bit of surprise – realizing that it's not actually up to them to decide anything about where she stays. Then Fet shrugs. "Well…there you go, then," he says, and they start walking off again.

"Miss Fet," Setrakian calls, making them all turn back.

"Just for security's sake, I would ask that you take a room on this floor. Safety in numbers, you understand," he says, and she nods.

"Sure…as long as you quit with the 'Miss Fet' thing. It's just Petey," she replies, with the tiniest hint of a smile. Then with her brother tugging gently on her hand, she walks off with him and Eph following behind – leaving Setrakian and Quinlan staring after them.

"Do you think we can trust them?" he asks, and Setrakian sighs.

"Ephraim? Yes. I know him to be an honorable man. And I would _like_ to believe that Miss Petey would be as well…but of course, there's no way of knowing for sure."

"That's not terribly reassuring," Quinlan replies.

"Well, at the moment it's all we've got. Now, shall we get to work? We're wasting daylight. You're not going to bleed all over the book, are you?" Setrakian says, eyeing his still-open cut, which Quinlan dabs at again with the towel.

"You need not be concerned about it, Professor," he replies, and Setrakian can't help but grin slightly, a teasing glint in his eyes.

"Managed to do that, did she? Getting sloppy in your old age," he says. Quinlan raises an eyebrow at him as he turns and heads for the study. Then he turns back and lingers on the receding figures with an equal mixture of concern and intrigue, finding it especially difficult to take his eyes off Petey. But eventually, he turns and follows the Professor, forcing himself to get back to the business at hand.

* * *

In just fifteen minutes, Fet manages to whip up a decent late breakfast for everyone – scrambled eggs from milk carton, mixed with canned ham and canned tomatoes, and plenty of coffee, which everybody snarfs down appreciatively. As she stuffs her face, Petey gets the feeling she's being watched. She looks over to see Fet staring at her, his big head propped up on one elbow.

"What?" she says, with a mouth full of eggs.

He just grins and shrugs. "Just glad to see ya's all. I can't believe you walked all the way up here alone…y'know how lucky you are?"

Petey gives him a somewhat insulted look as she finishes chewing and wipes her mouth. "Well, it wasn't all luck, y'know. I got real handy with that machete real quick."

"'Course I know. I know you can take care of yourself. It's just…the odds of anybody making it going it alone are pretty fuckin' slim."

"Yeah, well, that's why I'm here, dumbass," she replies, giving him a big, toothy smile and a playful smack upside the head. Quietly chewing across the table, Eph chuckles as he watches them mock-fight, swiping at each other like a couple of hissy cats. Then Fet just grabs her and hugs her again.

"Seriously, though, you okay?" he asks. "Quinlan can be, uh…pretty fuckin' scary. He didn't hurt you, did he?"

Before she can reply, Eph interjects his usual and unique biting-yet-hilarious sort of sarcasm. "No, actually, that was me. _I'm_ the one whose face he put through the wall," he says, gently touching his smarting nose. "I'm amazed it isn't broken. By the way, where the hell'd you guys even _find_ him? I didn't think there could _be_ such a thing as a human-Strigoi hybrid."

"Actually, it's the other way around. _He_ found _us._ Told us he was hunting the Master too. And get this…the Ancients brought him over from the 'old country' in a private jet. Even the fuckin' Munchers work like a goddamned corporation," Fet replies, and both Eph and Petey look at him, captivated by the sudden dose of history and legend.

"Seriously?" Eph asks.

"Seriously," Fet replies. "And even though I don't trust him any farther than I could throw him and I really hate the fact that he's loitering around here…fact is, he's a hardcore badass. First time we saw him, he took out a bunch of those spider-walker kids by himself. Cut one clean in half and stepped on its entrails to keep it from moving around so he could stab it in the head with that fuckin' sword of his…a sword that uses a human femur for a handle, by the way."

Eph and Petey exchange looks and then look back at Fet, both horrified by the images the description has now burned into their heads.

"Okay, that's...horrible," Eph says.

"Yeah. So, uh, just a word of advice going forward…stay out of his way, and don't piss him off," Fet says to both of them – but he makes sure to end the sentence on Petey, giving her a hard look.

"Why're you lookin' at me?" she says.

"Because I know you. You got a big, fresh mouth that doesn't know when to quit sometimes."

"So? Right back-atcha. Guess it runs in the family, huh? And is this your way of saying I _asked_ to get jumped back there? 'Cause if so, then fuck you. I wasn't about to let that… _thing_ hurt me or Eph if I could help it."

"Right…and look where that got ya," Fet fires back, and Eph just looks between the two of them, dreading another fight – so he pushes back from the table.

"Well, I'm just gonna…y'know…" he starts, but Petey beats him to it.

"No, actually, _I'll_ go. The 'obnoxious prick' pill my brother's taken needs some more time to wear off, apparently."

With that, she pushes back hard from the table, the chair making a grating screech. Then she storms out the door, making it swing hard in her wake – leaving the guys in it. Eph just looks at Fet, who looks back at him, embarrassed.

Eph sighs. "Look, I'm in no position to judge anybody's handling of family, I know that…but I'd maybe go a little easier on her. Y'know, just a suggestion," Eph says as he gets up and clears the dishes. "Thanks for breakfast…and for showing up when you did. Two more seconds and…you wouldn't have had a sister to argue with anymore. And I'm sure I would've been next."

Fet takes that in – then he joins Eph in putting things away, running some water over the dirty dishes. Before Eph can leave the room, he says quietly, "Hey, Doc...I'm really sorry about Nora. She was awesome. Really awesome."

"Yeah. She was. I just wish I'd realized that sooner and done what I should have."

"Well…I'm sure she gave as good as she got, y'know? She wouldn't have gone without a fight. And we'll figure out a way to find Zach, don't worry," Fet says – and Eph's expression goes blank.

"What's your feeling about that book, Fet?" he then asks. "You really think it's the answer?"

Fet shrugs, shaking his head. "I dunno…I mean, The Master _did_ go through an awful lotta trouble to try and stop us from getting it. So there must be _something_ in there, something important that he doesn't want us to know about. It's just a question of whether we have the time to figure the whole thing out. And in the meantime, Munchers are multiplying, people are dying by the hundreds every day, and whatever plan the Master has just keeps rollin' along. We can't just sit around and let _that_ go on either, y'know?"

"Yeah…yeah," Eph replies, with a dejected sort of resignation in his voice – a distinct lack of hope that Fet notices. "Well, I'm gonna crash for a bit before I head back to Red Hook. Wake me if you need me."

"No problem," Fet says, watching after him as the door swings back and forth. Then he goes out after him, looking for Petey in every room – finally finding her unpacking her bag in the one farthest away from everyone, near the back of the building. She spots him and rolls her eyes as he stands in the doorway.

"Petey," Fet says, quietly – and she can't help but drop her guard a bit as she looks at him.

"Sorry," he then says, venturing forward a step. "I didn't mean to be, y'know…such a dick."

Petey stares at him – then she sits down on the bed with a heavy sigh. "No, you're right. I screwed up. Huge. 'Course I didn't know _how_ huge 'til he was on top of me and I couldn't get free…so stupid," she says.

Fet sits down beside her. "It's alright…you're alright now."

"Would you stay with me for a while?" she asks.

"Yeah," he says – and he grins as Petey rests her head on his shoulder.

"I missed ya, kiddo," he whispers into her blue hair. She smiles too, eyes closed.

"I missed you, too," she replies. It gets quiet for a moment, then Petey opens her eyes again with a thought.

"So is Pop still in Brighton?" she asks – and she feels Fet tense up, letting out a big sigh.

"He's gone, P."

"What?"

"I went to see him, back when all this started…I told him to take Ma and get outta the city. I told him something bad was coming. But he didn't listen…" Fet shakes his head, unable to stop the sorrow from surfacing, even though his relationship with his parents had been rocky, at best.

"The Strigoi got them?" Petey asks, and he nods.

"They ended it before they could turn."

"OD?" she asks, and he nods in reply, sniffing. Petey leans in and kisses his cheek.

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah…me too. Just wish I'd had a chance to see Ma, y'know? Say goodbye," he replies.

"Your mom was a sweetheart."

"She used to ask about you all the time."

"Did she?" Petey says, with a wistful smile. It's quiet for a while after that, both of them lost in thought. "I don't know how to feel about Pop being gone," Petey then says.

"You don't have to feel any way about it, P. You're not obligated to mourn him. He wasn't a father to you in any way that really mattered," Fet replies – and Petey shuts her eyes hard at that, tears leaking out despite her ambivalence toward the man she and Fet both called "father." She inhales roughly, burying her face in his shoulder.

"Just makes me feel so…alone," she whispers.

"I know…but you're not. It's you and me now. I gotcha," he says, hugging her tight, both of them grieving for a parent they had no relationship with – both of them plagued by lingering memories and regrets.

* * *

Eichhorst walks through the subway tunnels with ease and grace, as if he were just out on a Sunday stroll through the park. He pays no mind to the rancid smells and the garbage at his feet. He follows the tunnel until it opens up into a wider area, one the city uses to store decommissioned subway cars. He winds his way through, finding the one he's looking for, and enters.

A giant, ornately-carved wooden box sits inside – The Master's sarcophagus – full of loam from the old country, teeming with white worms. Its doors sit open and The Master, now living in the body of what used to be Goth-pop star Gabriel Bolivar, lounges across one of the subway seats nearby, looking as if he's in a trance. His bright, red-orange eyes stare ahead, unblinking – surveying his newly acquired domain through the eyes of any and all Strigoi. Eichhorst stands a respectful distance away, waiting to be acknowledged.

"Thomas…what news?" The Master finally says, his mutated hand gesturing for him to approach.

"All is well, my Master. The government effort to use the military has failed. We have neutralized them. And despite Mister Fet's attempt to bring down the Bronx facility, most of the damage is cosmetic. The harvesting plant is unaffected."

"And what of the shipment?"

"I will be checking in with Eldritch this afternoon."

"Good," The Master replies, turning his misshapen head to look at him. "Have we heard an answer from Goodweather?"

"No, my Master. Not yet," Eichhorst says, and The Master makes a displeased growling noise.

"We must have the Lumen, Thomas."

"Yes, my Master. Should I visit Goodweather myself, speed things along?"

"No. He is merely avoiding making a choice, as cowards do. If he does not answer by tomorrow, we will remind him what his silence will cost. Have the mother bring the boy to the Tower. I will meet them there," The Master replies.

Eichhorst grins at that. "Yes, my Master," he replies, bowing like the dutiful servant he is. Then he leaves the car and walks back out the same way he came in, proud and certain of his purpose.

* * *

Zach Goodweather sits on the cot in his prison cell – a well-appointed one, made to look as much like his old room as possible – but still a cell. His mother, Kelly Goodweather, had even gone so far as to bring his bedding, his favorite clothes and the books he'd been reading recently, before all the bad stuff happened – before the Strigoi came and turned his mother into one of them. But she was different than all the others he'd seen. She could still talk normally – or at least close to normally. She sounded like a robot a lot of the time, but it was her voice. And she remembered things – like the fact that he'd just started reading _The Maze Runner._ Zach closes the paperback that she'd brought him, that he'd been reading most of the day. At the rate he was going, he'd be done with the entire series in a week.

He gets up from the cot and goes to the door, looking out the small porthole. He didn't know why he was bothering to look. There was nothing to see except the opposite wall. He had no idea where he was. After he left Nora to go with his mother, it seemed like they walked the tunnels for hours. When they finally came back up to street level, the area just looked like any other industrial part of any big city. For all he knew, they could be in Jersey or Connecticut.

Zach sighs and goes back to the cot, plopping down and grabbing the baseball his mother also brought from home. He tosses it up in the air and catches it, over and over, until he feels about ready to drift off to sleep. Then he hears the key turning in the lock outside and he sits up to see his mother in new clothes and full makeup – looking perfectly normal, like nothing had ever happened to her.

He tries to convince himself of that idea and ignore the rest – because the only other option was to admit that the person he loved most in the world was gone. And he surprised himself with the lengths he was willing to go to in order to keep the illusion from crumbling. He left Nora to die alone in the tunnel, even though he loved her like an aunt or a cousin. He left his father behind, too – and allowed himself to be taken prisoner by monsters, just so he could cling to the ghost of his mother. Zach watches her as she stops in front of the mirror on his desk – making sure her wig is on straight, blending the makeup on her cheeks.

"How are you, Z?" she asks, looking at him with the mostly vacant stare she always had now, like a robot practicing conversational skills.

"I'm tired of being stuck in here, Mom. It feels like jail," he replies. Kelly walks over and sits down on the cot next to him.

"I know it does. I'm sorry about that. Would you like to take a walk with me?"

"Where are we going?"

"The Master wants to see you."

"He does? Why?"

"I'm not sure…but it must be important." She touches her hand to his, and Zach almost pulls away at how cold she feels. And he sees how she reacts to it – how she doesn't know how to deal with it, doesn't know how to relate to him anymore – not really. She covers her shortcomings by smiling, and she stands up.

"Come on. We mustn't keep The Master waiting."

Zach looks at her just as her new inner eyelid blinks. He feels his stomach drop with the realization of just what kind of frightening situation he's put himself in – and the illusion he's been clinging to pops like a bubble.


	6. Chapter 6

**_Chapter 6_ **

_One World Trade Center_

After walking for another eternity, Kelly finally brings Zach up to street level – and after looking around a bit, Zach realizes where they are. He looks up to see the massive, glass-covered skyscraper ahead, surrounded by an urban park – the September 11th Memorial. Zach sees the two huge, square-ish fountains marking the place where the old twin towers stood until terrorists flew airliners into them on that terrible day in 2001 – before Zach was even born.

"We're going to Freedom Tower?" he asks, and Kelly turns her head slightly to nod.

"That's right."

"I didn't think the building would have any power going to it now."

"Oh, it does. The Master's made sure of it. We're going all the way to the top."

"Really?"

"Mmm-hmm."

Zach brightens a bit, thinking for just an instant that things are all normal and he's just off on a late-night sightseeing trip with his mom. It's not until they get inside the building and he sees just how empty and dark it is that the illusion falls away again. Zach tenses up as they approach the elevator, seeing the two Strigoi guarding it.

"It's okay, Z. They won't hurt us," Kelly says and pats his shoulder as an affectionate gesture, but it feels empty to Zach – the kind of hollow gesture one would get from somebody who doesn't like showing affection. Zach eyes the Strigoi as they enter the elevator, hearing their rattling, growling sounds as the doors close.

It takes only a minute for the high-speed elevator to zoom up the 1,776 feet to the observation deck. Zach remembers the tower's symbolic height from the time he visited on a school trip – and he can't believe he's actually wishing to be back in school now. He finds himself even missing the stupid kids who used to bully him. He just misses everyone – his class, the annoying crowds of tourists, the rude cab drivers, even the bums.

He just misses _…normal._

Zach sighs as the elevator slows down, coming to a gentle stop at the observation deck. The doors slide open to reveal the expansive space, housing the café and gift shop. But everything's deserted. Only some of the interior lights are on, just the bare minimum of illumination. Zach walks out and goes directly to the window in front of him, standing right against it, looking out over the river – recognizing the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island, but everything's dark on both islands.

No power. No lights. No people. _No normal._

Then Zach hears a noise – the telltale, raspy breathing of the Strigoi – but a little different. He turns and sees something dash across the floor some feet away.

"Mom?" Zach calls – but Kelly's nowhere to be seen. Then he hears the sound again, behind him this time. He whirls around to see more shadowy things crawling across the floor – and then jumping up on top of the gift shop shelves, perching like birds or cats.

_"_ _Mom!"_

Still no Kelly – nobody but him and these _things_. Zach's breathing picks up as he backs away, and the things' heads turn with his movements, lasered on him, making rattling, insect-like sounds in their throats.

"Mom! Where are you? **_Mom!_** " Zach coughs as he shouts. He bumps into a wall – and then, with no warning at all, one of the shadowy things perched on the shelves launches its stinger at him, almost reaching his face. Zach gasps and takes off, but there's nowhere for him to go. The shadowy things jump off the shelves and give chase, cornering him, surrounding him – and it's then that Zach can finally see well enough to make out what they are.

_They're just kids…just like me._

But these kids stay down on all fours, moving like spiders or crabs – and their eyes are even more messed-up looking than the average Strigoi, with scar tissue all around the sockets. And as Zach's noticing this, he's also noticing that his coughing's getting worse – he feels the tightening pain in his chest and knows he's having an asthma attack. But he doesn't have his inhaler or medication – and his mother is still nowhere to be found, and now he doesn't even have the breath to call out for help. All he can do is wheeze as he slumps down to the floor, holding a "stop" hand out to the Strigoi kids, as if that would mean anything to them. But amazingly enough, they don't attack. They just sit there on their haunches and stare at him like a bunch of vampire puppies.

"Help me…please…can't…breathe…"

Then he sees the silhouette of his mother as she comes up behind the Strigoi kids, who rub their heads against her legs like affectionate cats – and her hands gently touch their heads, stroking what little hair they have.

"Mom…" Zach barely manages to say.

"It's alright, Z," Kelly says.

"Can't bre—breathe…" Zach wheezes, just as another silhouette comes up beside Kelly, a tall, skinny, bald man wearing a long coat. The Strigoi kids make hissing noises and back away at his approach – and Kelly steps aside with a respectful bow. Zach tries to back away, but he's already right up against one of the windows, trapped.

The silhouette enters some of the measly moonlight coming in, and reveals its face – Zach makes a shocked expression at seeing Bolivar, a favorite singer of his, transformed into the thing in front of him. But Zach can't even say anything – his voice is gone, his lungs ache like they're on fire, and he can only guess he's turning blue at this point.

The Master stares down at him, calmly, hands clasped in front of him. "Hello, Zachary," he says – and Zach can only stare back at him in surprise, at such a pleasant greeting said in such a frightening voice, by such a frightening thing.

"I am sorry to see you in such distress. I would like to help you. Will you allow me to help you?" The Master asks – and even though half of his brain screams no, his survival instinct overrides everything now. Zach nods vigorously, writhing with the increasing pain of suffocation. The Master grins slightly – and then gets down on one knee beside him. Zach watches as he holds out a mutated hand with abnormally long fingers, using a razor-sharp thumbnail to cut his own index finger. His other scaly hand grabs Zach by the face, forcing his mouth open. Zach stiffens up, but he has no choice but to submit. Kelly steps forward then and gets down beside him on the other side, putting a steadying hand on his shoulder.

"You can trust him, Zach…trust The Master as I do, and your pain will disappear. You'll see," she says, so comforting in this moment – so much like his real mother. Zach watches helplessly as some of The Master's white blood oozes from the cut on his finger, pooling into drops that fall right into Zach's mouth. Then The Master closes Zach's mouth and stands back up.

"Rise, my son," The Master says. Zach sits forward, feeling incredibly – strange. Strange, but better. His lungs relax, and the stifling tightness in his chest disappears along with the pain. He opens his mouth, takes in a huge gulp of air and lets it out. Then he breathes normally, through his nose, and it's the greatest feeling in the world. He looks at Kelly, feeling stronger and more energized with every passing second. Kelly stands up, helping him to his feet – then she gently turns him to look at her, smoothing his hair.

"See? All better, right?" she says – and he nods. Zach looks at her and then at The Master, eyes wide with amazement.

"Thank you," he says. The Master nods at him with a snooty air, like a king might look at a peasant.

"You have nothing to fear from me," he says.

Zach looks him up and down, the new energy he feels making him bolder. "Why do you look like Bolivar?"

"Gabriel was a most loyal subject. So I chose him as my host."

"So…he's dead?"

"No. All that Gabriel was lives on in me, and will be part of me forever. He will remain young forever…just like your mother."

Zach nods, not entirely convinced that what he just heard is true. But given his position, he decides not to push the issue. "So why did you bring me here? What do you want from me?"

"I know this must all seem very strange to you," Kelly says. "But you're being given an incredible opportunity."

"Opportunity for what?"

"I need your help, Zach," The Master says.

" _My_ help?"

"Yes…only you can help me with this particular situation. I need you to reason with your father."

"What do you mean?"

"He continues to work against me. I need your help to convince him to stop."

Zach squints at him, wary. "Why would I do that? My dad's just doing his job. He's trying to help people. You're _killing_ them," he replies, and The Master takes the verbal hit with an ever-so-slight twitch of one eyebrow that hints at the fury within – fury that would normally strike out at such an insolent remark. But knowing this is a far different and much more delicate situation, The Master grins, nodding as he tries to figure out a different angle.

"I understand how you must feel, of course…how you would see it that way. And I admire your father's determination…his perseverance. But I fear he does not understand what I am trying to accomplish."

"And what's that?"

The Master strolls back across the deck, stopping at the center window and Kelly gently ushers Zach after him. He stands beside him, following The Master's gaze out to the bay, focusing on what few lights are left to see.

"I have lived a very, _very_ long time, Zach…thousands upon thousands of years," The Master says. "I have seen all the terrible things mankind does to itself and to this world. My greatest wish is to eliminate them. Wars, poverty, disease…those things will all end once my plan has been fully implemented."

"Really? Doesn't seem that way."

"No…I admit, it does not. But that is only because we have just begun…and great change is always the most difficult and disruptive at the beginning."

Zach takes that in, still not convinced but more intrigued now that The Master has shown some compassion to him by stopping his asthma attack – and some actual personality by talking to him. He doesn't seem like the monster Zach imagined. _He's…smart. He talks like a teacher._ And the possibility of some good coming out of all the bad things that have happened appeals to him.

"So you want to _help_ us," Zach says.

The Master nods, sharing his growing satisfaction with Kelly, turning to her and grinning. She smiles back and touches Zach's hair, stroking it lovingly. "Exactly, Z," she says. "But your father, and the others he's working with…they don't get that. We need you to make him see."

"How? I mean, I don't think he'll believe me," he replies.

"You underestimate your power, young man. You are the most important person in his life. You are the _only_ one he will listen to," The Master says. Zach looks to Kelly for her reaction, and she keeps her reassuring, mom-like smile going – making him feel safe, reinforcing the illusion.

"What do you want me to say?" he then asks.

"He will be contacting us soon, to meet. When he does, and we meet him together, you can ask him to stop working against me. To stop killing my children, whether by poison or any other means…and to convince those working with him to do the same," The Master says.

Zach looks between The Master and his mother – wanting to believe, in his innocence, that they're being truthful. But the little voice in the back of his head, the one that always scolded him when he was doing something wrong or warned him that something wasn't right – it screams at him now to beware.

"I don't think I can do that unless I have something to show him…some proof that you mean it," he says.

"You _are_ that proof," Kelly replies.

"The essence I have given you did not just stop that one attack," The Master says. "Your father is a doctor and so he will be able to examine you and see that your condition has been completely eliminated."

"Oh…okay," Zach says. "But what if that's not enough? I mean like, with Professor Setrakian and Fet. I don't think they'll believe it no matter what I say."

"Do not concern yourself so much with them. All I ask is that you do your best to convince your father. Then he and I will do the rest. Do we have a deal?" The Master asks, offering a hand to him. Zach grimaces at the idea of touching the grotesque thing – but after looking to Kelly again and seeing her beaming at him, so much like she used to – he puts his small hand inside The Master's, feeling it closing around him and giving a single, firm shake.

"Good. I am honored to have met you, young Zach. I will see you again when we go to meet your father. In the meantime, your mother and Mr. Eichhorst will take good care of you. Now I must bid you goodnight."

With that, The Master gives him a slight, genteel bow – then he strolls to the elevator and gets in. When the doors close, Zach looks to Kelly, who kneels to his eye level and hugs him in the reserved, unnatural way she does now.

"I'm so proud of you, Z," she says earnestly enough, and then pulls back to look at him.

"Really?" he asks – and she nods, fussing with his hair again.

"Most people would have just cowered or tried to run away. But you were brave…so brave…and so smart."

Zach can't help but brighten at the compliment. "So we're gonna see Dad soon then?"

Kelly nods. "Very soon…and you'll be able to go back and stay with him if you want."

"Oh…okay," he replies – realizing that he's not so sure he _wants_ to go back now. He loves his Dad, misses him - but while staying with him and the others, Zach learned a lot of things about him that he didn't like. Things that turned his world upside down and left him grasping for anything that reminded him of when things were better.

"Unless you'd _rather_ stay with me," Kelly then adds. "I would love that…but I don't want you to feel like a prisoner. I know you don't like that room you're in now."

"No, not really."

"What if we found a different place?" she asks, and he brightens even more.

"What about home? Can't we just go there?" Zach counters – and for a few seconds, Kelly's face goes blank. Either she doesn't know how to answer – or someone else is telling her what to say.

"I'm sorry, Z…we can't go home. Or at least, _I_ can't. I…I have to be closer to The Master and Mr. Eichhorst. They need me here. But maybe you and your father can go back home."

"Oh," Zach says. He doesn't like the answer – something about it stinks, something besides the obvious. But at the same time, he still doesn't want to leave her. "Well…can we at least find a place with some windows? Somewhere where I can go outside?" he asks.

Kelly smiles at that – the small part of her that's free, the bit of her old self The Master allows her to keep in order to do her work, it warms with the love she still feels so strongly for her son.

"Yes, my dear one…of course we can."

* * *

_Red Hook Command Center/Safe Streets Initiative HQ – Brooklyn_

Two of the Safe Streets-commandeered NYPD Humvees roar up the street toward the building, pulling into the parking lot and zooming around to the rear to the loading dock. A bunch of NYPD Officers, including Justine Feraldo's right hand, Frank, jump out of the vehicle, to help one of two injured officers get inside.

On the other side of the building, Quinlan slinks around the base of the Command Center, looking for a way in – one that avoids people. The options aren't looking too good, as his shadow dashes from door to door. The rear loading dock looks to be the best option, but has a flurry of activity going on as the injured officers are moved inside. Quinlan waits until the commotion's died down before moving closer – noting several police officers still hanging around. He could easily take them out, but he wants to avoid drawing attention. He's not here to make a scene – he's on a self-assigned reconnoiter. So he moves as quietly as possible, zipping from cover to cover until he's close enough to the open bay to slip past, with only one officer standing between him and his opening.

He reaches into the pocket of his long overcoat, and pulls out a coin – a rather old one, an English penny from his time living in London almost two hundred years ago. He rubs it between his fingers, reluctant to lose it even though it has no real value – only sentimental, which he immediately chastises himself for.

_Sentiment…gets you into trouble every time._

That's all it takes for him to pull the coin out and fling it. It flies behind the officer and lands with a high clinking noise a good ways away, making the officer turn and look – and then stroll toward the sound, which is Quinlan's cue to move. He puts up his hood, drawing it tight around his head as he moves through the mostly empty space of the ground floor – only a skeleton crew for the night watch. Quinlan sneaks easily past the front entrance detail, the guards far more concerned with talking about the injured officers that just went past them. Quinlan sees the door to the stairs and sneaks over to it, slipping in.

He moves quietly up the stairwell, stopping at every floor to peek in until the finds the Command Center, where the injured officers are just getting off the elevator. A cacophony of chatter and shouting accompanies them – the loudest voice of all belonging to Justine Feraldo herself, as she jumps right in and grabs one of the guys' arms, slinging it over her shoulder as she helps him along.

"What's your name?" she asks the officer, who's breathless with the pain of the broken leg he's suffered.

"Schmidt…Danny Schmidt, ma'am…"

"Nice to meetcha, Danny. What precinct were ya?"

"Midtown South, ma'am…"

"For chrissake, stop callin' me ma'am."

"Yes, ma'am…I mean, Councilwoman…"

From a shadowy corner by some cabinets, Quinlan watches and listens to the woman he'd heard so much about as she and poor Officer Schmidt limp past him. _Feraldo does have quite the way about her,_ Quinlan thinks. _A definite strength, but kindness as well._ She was fascinating to watch – but she wasn't the one he was there to watch.

Quinlan waits for the parade of officers to pass by and then zips along with them, using their motion to hide his own as they move to the rear of the building, where Feraldo's had a makeshift medical treatment area set up. He ducks into an alcove just as someone else approaches, coming up the hallway from the other direction – and the smell he picks up is unmistakable.

He looks and sees Petey just as she dashes by him, hands behind her head, pulling her long, blue hair into a sloppy ponytail. She joins Feraldo and Officer Schmidt, taking the weight off the Councilwoman and taking control of the situation.

"Petey, this is Danny," Feraldo says, and she smiles at him.

"Hiya…let's getcha inside here, we're all ready for ya," she says – and Officer Schmidt, now semi-out of it with the pain, grins back at her.

"How ya doin', sweetie…you're cute…like the hair..."

"Oh, yeah? Thanks."

"What're ya doin' later?" he asks, which makes Petey laugh – and Quinlan's ears perk up. It had been such a long time since he'd heard a woman's laugh. _Such a beautiful sound._ And while some women had obnoxious, squealing-pig or braying-donkey laughs that would make one want to run from the room – Petey's was the genuine music of unexpected joy.

"Ohhkay, one thing at a time, Romeo," Petey then says, then looks to Frank, shouldering the other officer. "Frank, take him across the hall there! Keep pressure on the cut, I'll be right there!"

"Got it," Frank replies, helping the other man, who's bleeding from a deep cut he sustained after tumbling down a debris-filled stairwell. Justine and Petey get Officer Danny down on the exam table and then Petey immediately goes about getting his vitals.

"It's okay, Councilwoman. I got this," she says, as she puts the stethoscope's ear tips in.

"Yeah, I guess you do," Justine replies.

"Got an ETA on your Doc?"

"Someone's driving him in right now. Lemme get an update." Justine breezes out of the room and down the hall, right past Quinlan, who watches the hall for another minute to see if anyone else is coming. Then he ventures out of the alcove, stepping lightly across the hall to the room Petey is in, stopping just outside and listening.

"Alright, I'm gonna need you to suck it up here for a minute while I check out your leg, okay?"

"Suckin' it up's all I been doing."

"Very true. And you're doing a great job," Petey replies. "So just a few more pokes and prods here and I can let you rest for a while until the Doc gets here."

"Just get it overwith," Officer Danny says, letting his head drop back on the table.

"Right," Petey replies, as she carefully undoes the Velcro on the plastic brace they used to secure his leg in the field. Officer Danny squirms and sucks his breath in as the brace releases along with the broken bone.

"I know, sorry…you're doin' great," Petey says, as she then takes a pair of scissors and cuts his pant leg off just above the knee, and below the tourniquet applied in the field. "You're doin' good, man, just hang on," she keeps repeating over and over, in a calm, soothing tone honed over years of experience.

Quinlan's head barely clears the doorway as he watches her work, using a flashlight to examine the break closely. She moves down to his feet and places her hands around the affected one. "Wiggle your toes for me?" she asks, and nods when he does.

"Good," she says, and then she pinches his pinkie toe. "Feel that?"

"Yeah…yeah, I can."

"Good…okay," she says, as she then goes about cleaning his blood-soaked skin, gently dabbing around the break – and when Officer Danny winces, Petey immediately grabs his hand, squeezing it tight.

"I know, I'm sorry…almost done. Just keep as still as you can," she says – and then as quickly as Quinlan's ever seen anyone work, she stabilizes Officer Danny's leg and rechecks his vitals. Then she takes a blanket out from under the table and lays it on top of him, tucking the edges under him. "All done for now. Just rest. When the Doc gets here, we'll see about getting x-rays done. You need some water?"

Officer Danny nods, his eyes heavy with fatigue. Petey grabs a bottled water off the table and puts a hand behind his head to lift him up a little, pouring some into his mouth. "There you go," she says. "I'm gonna go across the hall and help your buddy, then I'll be back."

"He's not my buddy, he's a fuckin' idiot. He's the reason we're in here," Officer Danny says.

"What happened?" Petey asks.

"We were clearing out condos in Tribeca tonight…y'know, so all those rich assholes Feraldo's gettin' money from can protect their investment properties? Anyway, we're almost done with this one, and we get jumped right by the top floor landing. Instead of advancing and taking the muncher out, dickhead over there backs up and sends us both down the fuckin' stairs. But he just gets cuts and bruises…he'll be back in play by tomorrow night with battle scars to impress the hotties at the Mayfield. Meanwhile, _I'm_ the one who's out permanently. First thing I'm gonna do when I get mobile is punch him right in the fuckin' face in front of everybody in the bar."

From his listening spot, Quinlan can't help but smirk at that – he wasn't impressed at all with New York as a city, but the people who lived there were certainly _…colorful._ He watches as Petey takes some gauze and water and cleans the Officer's dirty face, dabbing the gauze on his forehead to soothe him.

"I hear ya," she says. "I'd punch him, too…probably more than once."

Quinlan grins again _…I bet you would._

"Anyway, don't worry about him. You just take care of you. Rest easy," she says, giving him a thin smile.

"Hey, y'know…that wasn't just delirious rambling before. You wanna get a drink later?" Officer Danny asks, and Petey laughs again – not a mocking one, though. More like that of a shy young girl getting a compliment from the most popular boy in school, Quinlan thinks. But for some reason the exchange between the two starts to bother him, and he finds himself squinting hard at the injured officer.

"I'll think about it," Petey then says, and Officer Danny makes a clicking noise with his tongue.

"Aw, c'mon…what's to think about?"

"Hey, don't get pushy, alright? I said I'll think about it."

"Okay, okay. Backing off."

"Cool your jets, hotshot. Doc'll be here soon," Petey says with a grin. Then she turns to leave – and she makes a face when she thinks she sees something move past the doorway – fast, like a passing shadow of something. She goes out into the hallway, looking both ways – but there's nothing there.

Once she disappears into the exam room, Quinlan sticks his head out of the alcove and looks up and down the hall, trying to decide if he should continue watching the Petey Show or just bail to start the night's hunt for a meal. He'd seen enough, he thinks after a moment. All he really meant to do was learn more about her and see what it was she was doing for Feraldo – to better determine if he and the Professor needed to be concerned about her.

Clearly, she was no threat, even though their initial meeting had been the ugliest possible confrontation – but that all had context now. In fact, given her skill set, Petey would be a welcome asset. Quinlan shoots one more hard, disapproving squint toward overeager Officer Danny's room, then he makes for the stairwell.

* * *

About an hour later, Petey pushes open the heavy door to the roof. She shudders a bit as the cold air hits her, finding its way into every opening in her parka. She raises the hood as she walks right up to the edge, the only thing standing between her and the open air being a two-foot tall retaining wall. She leans over slightly, the wind catching her hood and blowing it back – she closes her eyes as it lifts her hair and then gently subsides.

Then she digs in her pocket for an e-cigarette – one of a bunch that she liberated from an abandoned 7-11 on her long trek from Philly to New York. She takes her first drag of the vanilla-flavored nicotine liquid, letting it fill up her mouth on a good, long, slow inhalation and holding it for an instant before blowing the vapor out in a steamy cloud. She'd turned to e-cigs a couple of years earlier, to help her quit smoking real cigarettes – a most illogical habit that many nurses have. And it worked, she did quit – but as she drags on the e-cig, she remembers why she kept the habit for so long. Not only did the nicotine ease the stress of the job, but the whole routine required escape, usually to a rooftop – the only place where anyone living in a city could find some peace in the middle of the day. Sitting up high and holding the cig between her fingers, slipping it into her mouth and blowing out the smoke – it was comforting somehow, centering.

And Petey gradually notices as she inhales and exhales the vapor, how quiet it is. Cities were lots of things, but quiet wasn't one of them – especially New York. But it's so quiet now, in fact, that Petey finds herself lulled into a sort-of trance by it – a deep, meditative state where her mind feels at ease enough to bring forth the heavy thoughts. The uncomfortable ones. The painful ones. The ones about her father, gone forever now. Even though they never had a relationship, Petey feels his absence – even more so at the moment than that of her mother, who died of cancer years back. The fleeting memory of her, a sweet Ukrainian lady beaten down by the stigma of being a mistress and a single mother – it actually makes Petey feel relieved that she left the world before it became what it is now.

_She never would've made it._

But the relief only lasts a moment, as the new absence of her father bears down on her again, driving home the lonely reality of being an orphan. Petey takes another long drag, watching the vapor dissipate in the cold air – and then she feels it coming. A growing ache behind her eyes, the one people get when they try to hold back tears.

She doesn't want to cry now – or ever. Not over Alexei Fet. He doesn't deserve the salt in her tears. He doesn't deserve to be thought of in any sort of sentimental way. He doesn't deserve her sorrow, her time or even the effort it takes to think of him. He doesn't deserve this moment. She thinks all these things – and yet, the tears come anyway, too late to be stopped, like a dam that's reached its limit. Strong as they have been, the walls can't hold forever. There's too much pressure built up now – pressure from everywhere, coming at her from every angle, without and especially within.

Petey grips the e-cig tight, her warm tears turning cold as they make salty tracks down her cheeks – and she holds her breath, as if that would stop anything. But on the next inevitable breath, the last of her strength gives way to uncontrollable sobbing. She draws her knees in and covers her head with her arms, giving over, letting herself cry it all out – the dissolution of life as she knew it, her new life within the vampire apocalypse that she's only just beginning to understand, and the loss of a father who never wanted her.

She feels adrift, like whatever otherworldly, invisible tether that once tied her to the world, to reality – and perhaps her sanity – has unraveled and snapped. Now she's floating in the murky sea of the unknown, unsure how long she can tread water – or if it's even worth it to try, since it seems like the world may very well be ending anyway.

Even though she's quiet about it, Petey's cries carry all over the roof – the city acoustics bouncing the soft, heartbreaking sounds off every hard surface. She cries until her gut hurts, and then she looks up and out at the darkened city. The edge calls to her – she crawls toward it, grabbing onto the wall and looking down, her thoughts darkening still further.

_It'd be easy…just pull yourself over and let gravity do the rest._

But then she thinks of Fet – the brother she didn't know she had until a few years ago. The sweetest guy she'd ever met, who would be absolutely heartbroken if she were to abandon him now. She knows what that feels like – abandonment. A broken heart. Fet didn't deserve that. He deserved a loving family – so did she. And it seemed that they were going to have to provide that for each other now. Petey sniffs back her despair, swallowing it down, burying it.

_Suck it up. Get your shit together._

Then she hears a noise – or thinks she does – a noise that doesn't belong in and among the hard city sounds. A gentle flapping, like a bird coming in for a landing – or fabric picked up by the wind, like sheets on a clothesline. Petey stands up and turns to look behind her, but it's dark enough that she can't tell if there really is something there or not.

But somehow, she knows it – or feels it, more like. She got feelings like this from time to time – and her mother used to tell her it was her gift. A heightened intuition that sometimes allowed her to see around corners, so to speak. But she's not seeing anything now – only getting a vibe that she doesn't like. Keeping her eyes scanning, she backs her way toward the door – hoping to god that what she's sensing _isn't_ a Strigoi. But the idea that it could be makes her move quicker, and she turns and sprints for the door. She throws it open and then pulls it shut behind her, making sure it locks. She jogs down the stairs, stopping once she's down a few floors to look back up toward the roof – but there's nothing there.

Or at least, nothing she can see or hear. It's just quiet.

_Too quiet._

Petey then books it down the rest of the way back to the relative safety of the command center, making sure not to look back – out of fear that she might have been right. _Sometimes it's better just not to know._

If she had stayed on the roof just a few seconds longer, if she had bothered to look up – she might have caught a glimpse of Quinlan as he crouched there on top of the doorway – stock still like a gargoyle, but unable to keep the wind from lifting his coat. With his enhanced hearing, he waits until Petey's footsteps have faded before jumping down.

He walks to where she'd been sitting at the edge of the roof, and looks down – down to the dark, grimy alley below, down to where he's fairly sure she had been considering jumping to. A jump she wouldn't have survived – but of course, that was the whole point.

And as he stares downward, Quinlan wonders to himself: if Petey had jumped, would he have stopped her? He tends to think he would have, which leads to the next inevitable thought _…why?_ After all, he'd already attacked her once – and he didn't really know anything about her other than her connection to Fet, a human he could barely stand. Why should he care if she dies?

_Because there's something about her_.

Something that piqued his curiosity, that made him stay the extra hour to wait and see if she emerged from the building. She interested him. He could no longer honestly pass off tracking her as strictly a security thing. And the realization makes him both unhappy and exhilarated at the same time. He shakes his head at his human side rearing its ugly, complicated, messy head – amazed that people could deal with emotions at all, let alone all the time, every day, every minute. Especially such emotion as Petey was clearly dealing with as she sat there weeping, contemplating ending her own life.

_What would bring her to such a state? Besides the obvious, of course._ As awful as things had gotten for the human race in the last month, Quinlan doubts that the Master's deeds were the sole cause of her grief. There was something else going on with her – something much deeper, much sadder, much more personal.

And he wants to know what it is.

But at the moment, the need for blood necessitates an end to shadowing her _…for now._

* * *

Later on, when Quinlan returns from the night's hunt, his ears prick up immediately, hearing the hasty movement of things – papers being shuffled, desk drawers opening and shutting – and it doesn't feel right. He draws his sword as he slinks along the hallway and enters the main sitting room. It's empty but the lights are on, and Quinlan feels the disturbance of air, of someone having just been there a few seconds ago. He then hears the swinging door in the adjoining room and almost calls out for Setrakian – but then he thinks better of it, and instead follows the noise.

Quinlan enters the study and looks around, feeling that same wake of a person who's just left the room – he's right on someone's trail. And it's not the Professor or Fet _._ He would have recognized their scents. He thinks of Petey but it doesn't smell like her, either.

_Which could only leave…_

Quinlan steps up his pace as he hears more rifling ahead – someone's desperately looking for something, someone who shouldn't be there. The sounds lead him to the room where Setrakian kept the Lumen when he wasn't there – the room protected with ultraviolet lights. Quinlan stops as the purplish glow looms ahead of him, stopping him from getting much closer. He can't go into the room without seriously injuring himself – but he could still hit whoever's in there from his spot. He maneuvers around to get the best vantage point, and sees a male silhouette, tallish and bald, standing there in front of the open cabinet staring at the locked safe.

"Looking for something, Doctor?" Quinlan says, low and calm – but it startles Eph all the same. He whirls around and puts his hands up like the guilty almost-thief he is.

"You scared the shit outta me."

"Yes, I have that effect on people. Where is the Professor?"

"He left with Fet a little while ago to go meet somebody. I have no idea who. You mind putting the big scary sword away?" Eph says, his wary eyes darting from Quinlan's face to the sword still in his hand by his side. Quinlan cocks his head slightly, brandishing the sword with a fluid, stylish flourish that makes it seem like just an extension of his wrist as he rotates it.

"Depends," he replies. "Are you planning on stealing the Lumen?"

Eph can only gulp at that. Quinlan nods, sliding the sword into its scabbard on his back. "I thought as much. The only real question is why?"

Eph sighs, hanging his head for a moment – knowing he was never a good liar and that there's no easy way to ramp up to the truth, especially with someone like Quinlan standing in judgment.

"The Master wants to trade Zach for the book," he blurts. Then he sighs again – with relief this time, like a huge weight just fell off his back.

"So the Professor was right."

"Yeah. He usually is," Eph replies. "So…what happens now?"

Quinlan clasps his hands in front of him, chin slightly lifted, considering. "Well, I suppose I should kill you. It is why I'm here, after all…to protect the Lumen, and the Professor, from the likes of you."

"Look, Quinlan…can I call you Quinlan? Look, yeah, you got me. I'm not a good guy. I'm an asshole. I suck. But this is my son we're talking about. He's all I have left…and I am scared to death right now because I have no idea what I'm doing. I don't want to do this to the Professor, but…I can't see any other option. And I can't afford to wait. This has to happen _now_ ," Eph says, breathless at the end of it, terrified that he's just signed his death warrant and that the next – and last – thing he'll feel is some cold steel slicing through his neck.

But nothing happens.

Eph makes a face at Quinlan's stoic expression. "Okay…so…am I dead now or what?"

"I _should_ kill you, but I won't. Because this is an opportunity neither of us can afford to pass up," Quinlan finally replies.

"Wait…what?"

"You may not be the most honorable man, Doctor. But you love your son, that much is clear. You need him back. _I_ need to kill The Master. We can accomplish both ends by luring him out into the open using the Lumen as bait."

"But you just said you're here to protect Setrakian."

"We fight on the same side…and I admire his dedication to winning a war that has cost him everything. But he is unwilling to take a risk like this. He is _…too_ cautious. And this chance will not come again, so…what do you say, Doctor? Shall we show The Master that we can double-cross just as well as he can?"

Eph just gapes at Quinlan, shocked by the rapid, crazy turn of events and not quite sure he heard him right. The two stare each other down for a moment, the silence heavy around them, disturbed only by the humming of the UV lights – both of them knowing the choice they're about to make will change everything for everyone.

"You won't make a move until I have Zach, right?"

"Of course."

"You know how to open this safe?"

"I don't need the combination to open it. All I need is for you to shut those UV lights off."

Eph takes a deep breath – then he finds the power strips the lamps are plugged into and shuts them all off. The humming stops and the room instantly cools down. Quinlan basks in the temperature drop and the return of the dark for a moment, closing his eyes and stretching his neck muscles. Then he pulls a mini-Uzi from one of the shoulder holsters under his coat.

"You might want to step aside, Doctor."

Eph's eyes widen to the size of dinner plates. "Holy sh—!"

He dives out of the way as Quinlan pounds the lock on the safe with a torrent of bullets, the deafening noise of metal on metal forcing Eph to cover his ears as he cowers against the far wall. But it only lasts a couple of seconds – then it's over and done, and Eph looks up to see the safe door ajar, with a new, nasty-looking window in it leaking smoky wisps.

Quinlan holsters the mini-Uzi and walks up to the safe, making sure his leather gloves are securely on before grabbing the silver-bound tome off the shelf. He examines it for a moment, in awe of the superior craftsmanship in the carvings on the cover – especially the large symbol in the center, a flower-like design that in recent years had come to signify a warning of something toxic and lethal contained within.

Eph gathers himself up off the floor and joins him. They both stare at the book – then at each other. Then Quinlan hands it over to Eph and walks off, saying over his shoulder,

"Come along, Doctor. We've no time to waste."

Eph grips the heavy, ancient thing in his hands, squeezing it – as if he could will it to take his place and do the rest of the dirty work for him.

"Right," he breathes – and then he follows Quinlan out of the building, into his stolen taxicab, driving off into the night.


	7. Chapter 7

**_Chapter 7_ **

_The High Line, Gansevoort St., Meatpacking District_

Fet parks the Humvee by the Whitney Museum, a place he hadn't been to in a while and had been meaning to get back to when the Strigoi shit-storm hit. He takes in the unusual architecture, admiring it, reverting to the student he used to be for just a moment. Then Setrakian passes in front of him and breaks him out of the reverie. Instead of considering the unorthodox angles of the Whitney building, he scans the area for any signs of Munchers, his favorite piece of rebar at the ready. They'd been summoned by Rudyard Fonescu, the man who had been the Occido Lumen's keeper for decades. He wanted to meet Setrakian but wouldn't say why.

"I dunno about this, Professor…this whole thing feels hinky to me. I thought that Fonescu guy took his cash for the Lumen and got the hell outta Dodge," Fet says.

"I thought so too," Setrakian replies, as they arrive at the entrance to the High Line – the old railway bridge that had recently and successfully been turned into an elevated park. But now, standing under it at night, it just looks like any other shady part of the city where you wouldn't want to be caught alone.

"Perhaps Fonescu couldn't get out of the city," Setrakian then says, eyes scanning just like Fet's, ready to draw the sword out of his cane.

"The hell do you think he wants?" Fet asks.

"I really have no idea, Mister Fet. But at the very least, I can ask him more questions about the Lumen."

"Yeah…like if there's some kinda Cliff's Notes for the fuckin' thing so we don't have to waste all this time trying to figure it out?"

Setrakian sighs, not up to defending his stance on the Lumen, or their lack of activity of late. Luckily, they hear an approaching vehicle just then, and after a few seconds a shiny, black SUV pulls up in front of them and stops. Setrakian and Fet make perplexed faces at each other.

"Uh…somehow I didn't imagine Fonescu traveling in a swank ride like that," Fet says, as two beefy security guards exit the SUV, and one of them opens the back door. Instead of Fonescu, Eldritch Palmer steps out – the billionaire owner of the Stoneheart Group and The Master's primary human collaborator.

"Ah, fuck," Fet says, throwing his hands up. "Can we just shoot him and be done with this piece-o-shit already?"

"I suppose I should have guessed as much," Setrakian says, shaking his head. "Let's just hear him out for the moment. Then maybe we'll shoot him."

Palmer, an elderly man and more sickly-looking than usual, hobbles toward them – still trying to maintain his sophisticated air in his expensive suit and overcoat. "Abraham…thank you for coming. I apologize for the Fonescu ruse, but I knew you wouldn't see me otherwise," he says.

"What the hell do you want now?" Setrakian asks.

"I want to make a deal."

"What kind of deal?"

"As you can see, my health is again deteriorating. And after what happened with the Lumen auction, The Master is unwilling to give me any more of his essence."

"Aww. My heart bleeds," Fet scoffs, rubbing two of his fingers together. "Here's the world's smallest violin, playin' just for you, asshole!"

"Get to the point, Eldritch," Setrakian prompts, holding up a quieting hand to Fet. Palmer shoots a nasty look at Fet and then moves closer to Setrakian.

"I know you've found a way to use Strigoi blood to extend your life. I don't know _how_ you managed it…I've had doctors and researchers working on it around the clock, but none of them have been able to figure it out. I'm running out of time," Palmer says, rather desperately.

Fet makes a shocked face at what he's hearing. "You gotta be kiddin' me, man. There is no way the Professor would ever do anything like that!" he shouts, making Palmer turn on him.

"Stay out of this, rat catcher…the grown-ups are talking," he seethes, and Fet sets his jaw hard.

"Oh, you wanna see how grown up I am, you Muncher-lovin' prick?" he fires back, ready to haul off with the rebar when Setrakian pushes him back with surprising strength.

"Back off, Fet…back off!"

"What the hell is he talkin' about?" Fet asks harshly, but Setrakian ignores him, turning back to Palmer to push him away as well.

"You have nothing to offer, Eldritch."

"Oh, but you're wrong. The Master still requires my resources to complete his work here. Give me the formula for the essence and I will cut off those resources. I'll leave New York. He will be vulnerable then," Palmer says – but Setrakian just narrows his eyes at him.

"How can I trust anything you say?"

"I made it so you could walk away from that auction with the Lumen!"

"Which I'm quite sure you did just as much for yourself as for us."

"Please, Abraham…I'm begging you. I need that formula," Palmer sighs, and Setrakian thinks he can almost see life leaving him with every breath. In all the years they had known each other, Palmer never looked well, even when he was young – but now he looks particularly wretched. And as hardened as he's become, even Setrakian can't help but pity him.

"Yes…I can see that. I'll think about it. Let's go, Mister Fet," Setrakian then says, tugging on Fet's sleeve. And Fet makes sure to give Palmer a one-finger salute as they turn to walk away. Palmer attempts to follow them, chest heaving with labored breaths – but he can only go a few steps before almost collapsing. His guards rush in to catch him and lead him back to the car, but Palmer strains against them.

"Goddammit, Setrakian! What does that mean?!" he yells, and Setrakian turns around.

"It means exactly what I said. I will contact you when I have made my decision."

Palmer watches them walk away, and almost busts out in tears. And as his guards put him back in the SUV and drive him back to Stoneheart, he suddenly realizes that for once, he's the one on the short end of the stick. He was always the one with the high ground, the leverage, the bargaining power. Now all he could do was hope – hope that a lowly pawnbroker would take pity on him.

* * *

 

For a while, the ride back to the Olympian Club passes in complete silence. Fet goes over what he heard Palmer say, turning it over and over in his head – but it just doesn't compute. He steals glances over at Setrakian, each one longer than the last, until finally, the Professor sighs hard.

"What is it, Mister Fet? I can feel your staring eyes drilling a hole in my face."

"Is it true?" Fet asks.

"Is _what_ true?"

"Oh, c'mon, Professor…don't do that. You know exactly what I'm talkin' about. Is it true?"

Setrakian squirms in his seat. "Yes," he replies – and Fet can't believe what he's hearing, even though he suspected that was exactly what he was going to say.

"For real? You are actually, seriously using Muncher blood to keep yourself alive? How the hell's that even possible, first of all, and second _…why?_ " Fet says, and all Setrakian can do is laugh – quietly, ironically, with a sad shake of his head.

"I know it makes no sense, and probably seems…hypocritical, to say the least. But the fact is, Mister Fet, that I am ninety years old. And as you've seen for yourself, this work requires strength. Physical strength. Stamina. Vigor that an average man of my age simply _does not have._ I realized a long time ago that if I was going to continue this fight, that I was going to have to rely on the very thing I've sworn to eliminate."

Setrakian braves a glance over at Fet – whose stunned expression makes him turn away again. "I realize it's not much of an explanation…but it's all I've got."

Fet finally turns to look back at the road, and it gets quiet again for a few blocks. Like before, he goes over the new information in his head, over and over – and as much as he doesn't want to admit it, he begins to see the twisted sort of logic in it.

"So, what, then?" he finally says. "You're gonna live forever, like The Master? Or like Quinlan?"

"No," Setrakian replies. "The serum doesn't work that way."

"Well, how _does_ it work? How'd you even figure out how to _make_ it work? I mean, I know you're a super-smart guy, Professor, but I also know you ain't no fuckin' chemist."

"No, that's certainly true enough, I am not a fucking chemist. I was fortunate enough to find others involved in the fight over the years, others who _did_ have the proper knowledge. The formula for the white that Eldritch was referring to has been passed down from generation to generation among select alchemists. I befriended and worked with a doctor in Vienna who passed it on to me. I've been using the white for the last forty years…and I'll continue to use it until The Master is dead and every threat he poses is eliminated."

Fet nods, as they pull up to their usual parking spot behind the Olympian Club. He throws the Humvee in park and shuts the engine off, looking over at Setrakian. "But you won't live forever," he says.

"No, Mister Fet. I won't live forever. The white only works for a short while, six months, a year. Then I have to dose up again…and each time I do I risk dying," Setrakian says – and then Fet notices his eyes go a bit vacant, lost in deeper thoughts. "In fact, the last time I made the formula was at your place…and I very nearly died. If Doctor…if Nora hadn't found me when she did, if she hadn't done what she did, I would have died right then and there."

"Wait a minute…you're saying _Nora_ knew about all this?" Fet says, shocked – and Setrakian just looks back at him.

"I made her promise not to say anything to anyone…and she kept that promise."

"Jesus…"

That's all Fet can say. Then he quietly gathers his things and gets out of the Humvee, leaving Setrakian by himself for a moment. And as much as he despises Eldritch Palmer and Eichhorst for collaborating with The Master, Setrakian suddenly feels the weight of his own hypocrisy bearing down on him especially hard. He realizes that making Palmer suffer now just to service his own pride would only end up hurting himself and the cause.

If there was any chance that Palmer was being earnest, any chance at all, Setrakian knows he has to take it – because they need all the help they can get.

* * *

 

_Woodside, Queens_

The sun's nearly up by the time Eph finds his way into an abandoned bodega not too far from his house. He remembers all the times he'd stopped into the place to grab a pint of milk on the way into work – but it doesn't look like the same place anymore. Everything's been broken, ruined – garbage strewn everywhere. Eph shakes his head sadly, wondering if the nice family that used to run the place got out okay – or if they're even still alive.

Then he hears a bump and a clunk coming from the back of the store. He aims his 9mm as he sneaks down the nearest aisle, and he startles when an older woman jumps out at him from behind some shelves – he recognizes her as part of the family who ran the store.

_Guess that answers that._

Instead of shooting her in the head, Eph aims low and blows out her knee. She squeals as she drops to the floor and Eph steps back, waiting for her to get up again. And she does, all pissed off and ready to strike – but then a fast-moving shadow rushes in behind her. Quinlan puts the female Strigoi in a headlock, forcing her to look straight ahead, right at Eph.

"Hey...can you patch me through?" he says – and after a couple of seconds of useless struggling against Quinlan's grip, the female Strigoi closes her eyes. When she opens them again, The Master's orange eyes stare back at Eph.

"Wow," he says. "That is some communications network you got goin' on there. Anyway, thanks for taking my call."

"Goodweather…" The Master bellows.

"Yeah, it's me."

"Have you made your decision?"

Eph takes off his backpack and opens it, pulling out the Lumen and showing it off. "Yeah…I got your goddamned book."

"Excellent," The Master replies. "Now you will—"

Eph cuts him off. "Shut up. _I'm_ doing the talking. Now here's how this is gonna go. Bring Zach to our old fishing spot just after sunset. Only Zach knows where it is, not Kelly. And _you_ will bring him, not her or your Nazi butler _…you._ And Zach had better be _un_ harmed and _un_ turned…otherwise you can say goodbye to your precious relic. Now blink if you agree."

It takes a second, but The Master's orange eyes blink once.

"Good," Eph says. "I'm hanging up now."

And before The Master can respond, Quinlan snaps the female Strigoi's neck and she drops to the floor. Eph gives Quinlan an uneasy look as he puts the Lumen back in his pack.

"Relax, Doctor…you've done your part. All we can do now is wait," Quinlan says, and then walks out. As Eph follows him, he notices a couple of bags of peanut M&M's left on one of the shelves. He smirks _…Zach's favorite,_ he thinks, as he snatches them up.

* * *

 

_Olympian Club_

Petey waves to Frank Kowalski as he drops her off in front of the club. She pulls her ponytail out as she goes inside and gets in the elevator, slumping against the car wall as it carries her up – feeling the same kind of exhaustion she used to feel during her time working in the ER. And she only had two patients – one of whom was a bit too interested in her for her liking. She sighs, feeling badly for being so negative. There was nothing wrong with Officer Danny Schmidt, in fact, he was pretty cute – but she just wasn't up for dealing with dating bullshit in the middle of the apocalypse.

When the elevator doors open, Petey nearly jumps out of her skin as the first thing she sees is Fet pointing a gun at her – and Fet seems just as surprised. "Jesus!" they both say at the same time.

"What the fuck?!" Petey says, putting a hand on her chest, steadying her breathing.

"Sorry," Fet says, withdrawing the gun and putting it back in his shoulder holster. "But we got a pretty big problem. The book is gone."

"What book?" Petey says – then she realizes. "Oh…oh, shit, somebody broke in?"

"Oh, no…the thief's been here the whole fuckin' time," Fet replies, as they head for the room where the safe is – where Setrakian now stands, examining the safe with the bullet-ridden door.

"What do you mean, who was it?" Petey asks.

"Three guesses," Fet says, more to Setrakian than to her – Setrakian shakes his head, still in denial.

"I can't believe he would do this," he says. "I trusted him…or at least, I trusted in our mutual hatred for The Master."

Fet and Petey watch sadly as Setrakian wanders away from the safe and over to the nearest chair, sinking down into it, exhausted, dejected. "The Born could be anywhere by now. It'll be impossible to track him down."

A sneaky smile spreads over Fet's face then, as he proudly strolls over to Setrakian and squats down by him. "Yeah, you'd really be up shit creek right now…unless somebody who never trusted the fucker in the first place slipped a GPS locator into the spine of the book," he says – and both Setrakian and Petey look at Fet at that, surprised and hopeful.

"Are you serious?" Setrakian asks, brightening when he sees Fet's shit-eating grin.

"Who's your favorite exterminator?"

Setrakian sighs with relief as they both stand up – and he gives Fet's broad shoulder a hefty pat. "Thank you, Mister Fet. Well done."

Fet nods, strolling over to Petey to do an "exploding" fist-bump. "Pretty slick, slick," she says.

"Oh, I knew he would do it. It was just a question of when. Even a half-Muncher's still a Muncher," he replies. Setrakian shakes his head, this time with building anger, setting his jaw hard.

"Well, let's not waste any time. Let's go get the sonofabitch!" he says, storming off down the hall.

"Can I go with you?" Petey asks, and Setrakian turns back around to look at her.

"Absolutely. You're the only one of us who's actually landed a blow on him," he replies – and Petey makes a worried face at that, suddenly thinking that they might expect her to do it again.

* * *

 

_Kelton Street – Woodside, Queens_

Eph parks the cab behind the house – and for just a moment, with the almost-peaceful silence all around, it's as if he's just coming home from a late night at work. As he enters the house through the back door, he half-expects to smell coffee that Kelly's left for him and a plate of whatever she and Zach had for dinner warming in the oven.

But then Quinlan walks in behind him, and the illusion pops like a bubble. Eph trudges over to the couch in the living room and tosses down the backpack with the Lumen in it, plopping down beside it.

"Sorry about the mess," he says, watching Quinlan stroll through the dining room and into the kitchen. "I'd offer you something, but I'm fresh out of O-positive."

Quinlan barely turns his head at Eph's snide comment, as he examines the space. He stops at the refrigerator to look at the photos tacked to it with kitschy magnets. Happy faces abound – a loving husband, wife and child. He takes one of the photos off the fridge and shows it to Eph.

"So this is your family?" he asks.

" _Was_ …yeah," Eph replies – and Quinlan can feel his sorrow. It ripples off him in waves that could knock a person over. So instead of making a snide comment back, Quinlan simply returns the photo to the fridge and heads for the stairs.

"I'll check upstairs. You should check the basement," he says as he disappears – but Eph just stays on the couch, feeling rooted to this remnant of his old life that seems so very far away now. He knows he should get up and do what Quinlan suggested – but he doesn't. Instead, he grabs up the backpack and uses it as a pillow as he stretches out and closes his eyes, finding himself not really caring if there are a hundred Strigoi hiding in the basement, ready to attack.

_Let 'em…they'll be doing me a favor._

* * *

 

Quinlan searches the upstairs rooms, finding no Strigoi. Not that he really expected to – he would have smelled them before they even walked in. His real reason for taking the upstairs was to snoop some more, finding himself increasingly fascinated with this museum-like exhibition of an average family's life. He moves around Zach's room, running a hand over the furniture, the clothes in the drawers, the trinkets, toys and pictures. Then he moves to the master bedroom, where he immediately picks up the smell of a woman's perfume. He follows the scent to Kelly's dresser, where a collection of delicate glass bottles sits. He picks them up one by one, carefully looking them over and taking in the scents – roses, magnolias, violets, vanilla and spices – which bring thoughts of all things beautiful to mind – especially the few women he's known. The smell makes him feel more deeply the absence of any woman in his life – a dull ache somewhere deep in his chest.

He opens the top drawer and sees a messy pile of underthings – some plain, some fancy. He picks up one of the brassieres and dangles it in front of him, still to this day not getting how anyone could figure out how to put one on, much less wear it all the time. It reminds him of the corsets he used to see Louisa in – she used to say they were far more like torture devices than clothing.

Quinlan closes the drawer and moves to the closet, running a hand over the clothes hanging there – Kelly's on one side, Eph's on the other, and all kinds of junk stacked on the shelves above the clothes. And as he moves back through the room, he's again struck by the number of photos all through the house – stuck to walls and furniture, in frames on every horizontal surface. It seems rather egotistical to him at first, surrounding oneself with pictures of one's own face. But as he looks over them all, he realizes that it's not like that at all – that the point of the photo is not to capture themselves, but to capture a moment, a particular time and place – and how happy they felt _in_ that moment.

Quinlan feels a new empathy for Eph then, gaining insight into why he is the way he is. And while his main purpose in teaming up with Eph was to get to The Master, Quinlan finds himself hoping that they can also secure Zach's safe return. He would certainly do everything he could to make sure it happened.

When he comes back downstairs, he sees Eph passed out on the couch and sighs. "Fine, I'll check the basement," he says.

* * *

 

_One World Commons_

Zach paces back and forth in his new room, which is actually the entire 64th floor of the World Trade Center. After his talk with The Master the night before, Kelly brought him down to see "The Commons" – and once the lights came on, it was amazing. The massive space held just about everything anybody could want – a coffee bar, a café, workspace with a bunch of computers, tons of comfy furniture and even a gaming room. Zach had spent the whole day beating his own record on _Gran Turismo_ and _Call of Duty,_ killing the shit out of hordes of Nazi zombies until eye strain made it impossible to continue. Then he pigged out on whatever junk food he could find laying around and then crashed in one of the nooks designated as a "nap space," fully decked out with a mattress and pillows and everything. It even played white noise on the speakers to help lull him to sleep.

It was as if he'd won the kid lottery – except for the fact that he was alone. Now as he watches the sun dropping down in the sky, he realizes that he just traded one jail cell for a nicer one. The only thing that makes him feel any better about it is being able to see so much of the city. He could at least see the sun here – he could see its light glittering on the waters of the Hudson, and feel its warmth coming through the giant windows. But he knows he'll have to wait until that light and warmth disappears to see his mother. Zach thinks of his father then, wonders where he is now – if he's okay. He jumps onto one of the cushy couches, hoping his mom will have news about him when she comes.

And as if on cue, Zach hears the elevator coming up and the gentle chime as it opens. He jumps up and runs to meet Kelly, who smiles as she steps out of the elevator with Eichhorst. Zach hugs her tight, and Kelly gives him a gentle squeeze.

"Hello, my dear one…how was your day?"

"Good," Zach replies, eyeing Eichhorst with some suspicion.

"How do you like your new accommodations?" Eichhorst asks, and Zach nods politely.

"It's…it's pretty awesome."

"Yes, it is, isn't it? The Master has decided to use this incredible structure as his new home as well. It is only fitting that the greatest of all beings should make his home in the greatest building in this hemisphere. So now we will all be able to stay here together, with more than enough space for everyone," Eichhorst replies.

"Cool," Zach says, though he's not sure he means it.

"And there's more good news, Z…we're heading out now to meet your father," Kelly says, and Zach brightens.

"Finally!" he says. "Where?"

"Well, now, that's just the thing," Eichhorst says. "Your father has asked to meet at a spot that apparently only you and he know about…a place where you used to go fishing."

Zach thinks for a second, and then nods. "Oh, yeah…the pier at Coney Island," he says. He sees the exchange of looks between his mother and Eichhorst – and it makes him uneasy for some reason, like he just gave away something he shouldn't have.

"Coney Island it is, then. Come along…I'm sure your father is most anxious to see you," Eichhorst says, opening the elevator for them. As he steps in and Kelly puts protective hands on his shoulders, Zach wonders exactly what kind of "meeting" this is going to be.

* * *

 

_Steeplechase Pier, Coney Island – Brooklyn_

The sun has just dipped below the horizon as Eph and Quinlan arrive at the pier in an inflatable fishing boat they appropriated from the docks at Mill Basin – knowing the super-rich residents of that particular neighborhood wouldn't be around to miss it. Eph cuts the outboard motor as he approaches the pilings holding up the pier, and then he grabs some rope. He ties one end to the raft and tosses the rest to Quinlan.

"Tie us up?" Eph asks politely, realizing it's the first words they've said to each other in hours. Quinlan complies without a word, and then looks back at him. Eph grabs up the coil of heavier line and tosses it to him.

"Don't leave me hangin'," he says – and then watches in amazement as Quinlan then vaults straight from the raft up to the rail, barely rocking the boat.

"Well, that's impressive…and freaky as shit," he mutters, watching as Quinlan ties the heavy line around the rail. Eph makes sure he has the backpack on securely before he steps on the first knot in the rope. He uses the successive knots as footholds to boost himself up – but it's not easy, as his weight keeps swinging him around.

"This looks so much easier in the movies," he mumbles as he struggles to climb. Quinlan gives the area around the abandoned pier a quick scan and then looks back over the rail.

"What's taking you so long?" he says, and Eph just shoots him a dirty look.

"Not all of us have mutant superpowers, okay? Just hold your fuckin' horses," he replies, as he gets close enough that he can reach out to him. "You mind?"

Quinlan grabs Eph by the arm and yanks him up and over, dumping him rather unceremoniously on the boardwalk. Eph looks up at him and sighs. "Thanks."

"Remember…do _not_ let the book out of your sight, no matter what," Quinlan says, as Eph struggles up to standing. Eph nods and pulls out his 9mm, checking the mag and chamber again.

"Yeah, I got it. Just, y'know…don't go too far. You're the one with the Uzis," he replies. The two of them share another uneasy, but not entirely unfriendly look.

"It'll be over soon," Quinlan offers. "You'll have your son back…and my dear father will be nothing but a terrible memory."

Eph's about to say something back but he doesn't get a chance, as Quinlan practically flies away down the pier and disappears. "Yeah, okay…way to drop _that_ little bomb of information, thanks!" Eph shouts after him, shaking his head.

Then he looks all around – at the darkening sky, at the murky water, at the deserted beach and city. With his only companion gone, Eph suddenly feels the unique terror of being alone – really, _really_ alone. He paces back and forth for a while, and then unloads the backpack as he sits down on one of the benches, the 9mm ready on his knee.

 _The Master's his_ _ **father**_ _…? Seriously?_ Eph thinks, but then as he switches back to virologist mode, he realizes that it actually makes sense – as much as anything about the Strigoi makes sense. He realizes the only possible way to make a successful hybrid like Quinlan would have to be in the womb.

_So his mother was turned before he was even born…jesus, how awful is that._

Eph tries to imagine what life must have been like for him as a child – and for his poor mother. _I mean, what do you feed a kid like that? Has he been killing people since infancy or what?_ A chill runs down Eph's spine at that, and he's not sure if it's the wind or the thought that's causing it. The idea of a child – a baby – doing what he's seen the Strigoi do just makes him nauseous. It makes him feel a bit of sympathy for Quinlan, something he never imagined would happen – and then it makes him think of Zach.

Eph stands up and starts pacing again, remembering all the times they came out here to try and catch some fish. Neither of them was terribly good at it, so when they managed to snare some herring it was like they'd reeled in the Kraken. Eph smirks at that, at how they'd bring home their measly catch and Kelly would just look at Eph like, _great…what the hell do you expect me to do with this?_ And then they'd order pizza.

 _Those were good days,_ Eph thinks – and wonders if he'll ever see a good day like that again. Then he looks up toward the park, where he sees headlights cutting through the dark. Eph walks down the pier toward the beach, watching a big, black SUV drive down the boardwalk a short distance before it swings around and parks.

Eph slows his pace, waiting for some movement – and maybe some hint as to where the hell Quinlan disappeared to – but for a moment, nothing happens. Eph squeezes the grip of the 9mm, trying to be ready for anything, but having no idea what's about to come out of that vehicle.

"Please…please…" is all he can say, whispering it to himself or to God or to nobody at all.

And as if in response, the SUV doors open and Eph sees Kelly get out – and then Zach. Even though he'd asked for her not to be there, Eph expected her to show up anyway, so it's no big surprise. But when he sees Eichhorst come around from the driver's side, Eph sets his jaw.

_Goddammit._

Then someone else gets out of the vehicle – taller than the rest, bald, wearing a long coat. As they group together and begin to walk down the pier toward him, Eph recognizes what used to be Gabriel Bolivar. "Okay…anytime, Quinlan…" he whispers.

"Dad!"

Eph can't help but smile a little when he sees Zach waving to him. But when Zach tries to break away, Kelly holds him back – and her expression isn't nearly as friendly. The Master steps in front of them both, blocking Eph's view, his voice booming all over the pier.

"I am here, Goodweather…as requested."

"Yeah…fantastic," Eph replies, trying to keep his eyes on Kelly and Eichhorst, who's come up on The Master's left side.

"Where is the Lumen?" The Master asks. Eph stows the gun in his pants and then dumps the backpack. He pulls the book out and holds it up for him to see.

"Alright…you send Zach and Kelly down to me!"

Kelly looks to The Master, who nods. As she takes Zach by the hand and leads him along, he looks up at her. "Mom, why are we being so weird about this? It's just Dad."

"Quiet, my love," she replies, terse and emotionless. Her grip tightens on his hand, enough to be uncomfortable – and Zach feels how much colder her skin is than usual. He looks down the pier at Eph, suddenly getting the feeling that something bad is about to happen.

* * *

 

Fet drives the Humvee through Brighton Beach like he stole it, plowing through the streets and any junked cars in his way as he divides his attention between the road and the GPS navigator on the dashboard, making a confused face at the directions.

"This makes no sense! According to this, Quinlan went over Jamaica Bay to get out to Coney Island. I thought you said Munchers _can't cross_ the water!" he says to Setrakian, who looks just as confused.

"They can't," he replies. "Not even Mister Quinlan should be able to…which can only mean that someone else is helping him."

"Goddammit," Fet mutters. "It's not like he's got so many friends, Professor. So how the hell could—"

"Watch the road!" Petey says, as she hangs on for dear life in the backseat – and Fet swerves hard around a wreck in their path. Setrakian watches the GPS monitor, staring intently – never imagining that he would have to be the one to not only kill The Master, but Quinlan as well.

"Miss Petey…on the floor back there should be a small crate. Would you hand it to me please?"

"Yeah," she says, trying to keep from getting a concussion as she feels around for the crate. She lifts it up and hands it over. Setrakian opens it up, revealing their two remaining silver grenades.

"What're those?" she asks – and Setrakian and Fet exchange looks.

"Those silver beauties…they make Munchers go boom, baby _…boom!_ " Fet says.

Setrakian grabs one of the grenades, gripping it tight. "And I know exactly where this one's going."

* * *

 

Zach looks between Kelly and Eph as the distance closes between them all – until Eph puts a hand up. "Alright, that's far enough," he says, wanting to keep Kelly at arm's – rather, tongue's – length. She stops with Zach, her face unreadable, which makes Eph even more nervous.

"C'mon, Zach," Eph says, motioning for him to approach – but Kelly won't let go of his hand.

"Mom…you said I could go if I wanted to," Zach reminds her in a whisper.

"Not until we have the book," she announces to Eph – who swallows hard, hoping his game face hasn't completely slipped off as he keeps up the glaring contest with Kelly. He walks forward, one arm protectively holding the Lumen, the other ready to pull the 9mm.

"What book? What're you guys talking about?" Zach asks, innocently – which draws Eph's attention away from Kelly for a second.

"It's okay, don't worry…" Eph starts. Then out of the corner of his eye, Eph sees Kelly open her mouth to release her stinger – and then it seems like time slows to a crawl as he reacts, drawing the 9mm and firing, hitting Kelly around the collarbone, which knocks her off balance. Her stinger stretches and flails, and Eph dives out of the way to avoid it – and in the process, manages to tackle Zach and grab a hold of him.

All pretense of normal gone, Kelly retracts her stinger and screams, " _No!_ I won't let you take him from me, you bastard!"

"Let's go! Let's go!" Eph shouts to Zach as he starts booking it back down the pier toward the boat.

"Wait!" Zach shouts as he runs along with him – so scared and confused about who he should really be with, that he keeps looking back at Kelly, who gives chase, launching her stinger again –

"Dad, look out!" Zach pulls out of Eph's grip to push him away – but it's right into the trajectory of the stinger. Luckily, Kelly's aim is off slightly and all it does is hit Eph in the back, not deep enough to penetrate his coat and clothes. But it hits with enough force to knock him down, and as Eph hits the boards he loses his grasp on the Lumen, and it skids a few feet away.

Kelly runs up and snatches Zach away – and as he thrashes around in her one arm, Zach's amazed and suddenly terrified of her superhuman strength. Eph tries to get to his feet, but she's right on top of him now, her black eyes shining with fury and her mouth open, ready to strike –

But she doesn't get the chance, as something dark, fast and powerful launches up from underneath the pier, landing between them and hitting Kelly square in the chest, knocking her back a good few yards, sending Zach tumbling out of her hold – and when Zach lands and looks back – he gasps when he sees what hit them.

Kelly recovers from the impact and looks up to see Quinlan standing there looking down at her. "The Born," she whispers in awe – and he cocks his head at her, before his whitish eyes dart over to a gaping Zach.

"Go to your father," he says – and Zach's too terrified to do anything but comply. He starts to get up – but then a several gunshots echo all around.

Everyone ducks, except Quinlan – who's taken the hits. He reels a bit, then looks back to see where they came from – and he sees Eichhorst approaching calmly and smoothly, a sinister grin on his face as he fires his antique Mauser again.

Quinlan manages to duck the shots this time, and as he pulls both Uzis from their holsters, he shouts to Eph, "Get the boy and the Lumen out of here! Go!"

And as Eph scrambles to get to Zach, he stays low to keep from getting mowed down by the barrage of hellfire Quinlan's suddenly released on what was such a quiet beach just moments ago.

* * *

 

"Well, well, well…whadda we got goin' on here?" Fet says, as they pull up beside the big, black SUV. He, Setrakian and Petey all pile out of the Humvee, looking at all the action going on at the end of the pier that they can't quite make out. Then Setrakian sees the two figures nearest to them.

"The Master…" he says, just as Eichhorst raises his gun and fires downrange – they all watch in shock as Quinlan gets shot and then pulls out the Uzis.

And The Master turns around to look right at them all then. "Holy shit," Fet says – and he wastes no time, pulling his own 9mm and taking a few shots. "Get to cover!" he yells at Petey, shoving her out of the way. She drops and rolls under the Humvee as Fet grabs Setrakian and they dive behind the SUV.

They all duck as Eichhorst then turns and fires at them, rounds hitting the vehicles with hard **_plinks!_**

"What the hell do we do?" Petey shouts.

"Stay there!" Fet replies, as he pulls the pin on one of the silver grenades. He waits for Eichhorst to run out of rounds before jumping out from behind the SUV – and from under the Humvee, Petey watches in amazement as her brother runs toward the fray, launching the grenade like a quarterback throwing a game-winning pass. The Master and Eichhorst find themselves boxed in – taking heavy fire from Quinlan on one end – and then Fet's little present arrives on the other.

 ** _BOOM!_** As soon as it hits the ground, the grenade explodes in a huge cloud of silver dust. Both The Master and Eichhorst retreat from the explosion, screeching as the silver burns their skin. But the only direction they can go is toward Quinlan, who drops the Uzis to pull out his sword. Eichhorst puts himself in front of The Master, a good half of his face charred from the silver, and Quinlan just chuckles at him.

"That's a much better look for you…only one more improvement to make," he says. Eichhorst snarls at him and the two of them run at each other – Eichhorst launches his stinger and Quinlan's about to chop it off when Kelly springs up behind him and jumps on his back. Quinlan swings around, smashes an elbow into her face and she drops to the ground.

Eichhorst is about to launch himself at Quinlan when The Master lays a hand on his shoulder. "No, Thomas…get the boy and the Lumen. Leave The Born to me," he says, and Eichhorst immediately runs for the end of the pier, past Quinlan, who's about ready to chop off Kelly's head – when her eyes suddenly flash orange with The Master's view. Quinlan sees it and turns, just in time to get backhanded by The Master. White blood sprays from the side of Quinlan's mouth as his head snaps hard to the side. He catches himself on the rail before he very nearly goes over. He drops and rolls to get clear – then The Master splays his long arms out and takes a swipe at Quinlan, his talon-like nails slashing deep across his cheek first, and then with the other hand, stabbing him in the gut.

"This ends now," The Master seethes as he plants a foot down on Quinlan's wounded chest to pin him down – but before The Master can launch his stinger, Quinlan reacquires a firm grip on his sword.

"Yes, it does…for both of us," he says as he lets fly with the sword, slicing The Master's throat – who lets out a loud screech as white-worm filled blood spills everywhere. Quinlan then pushes The Master off him and staggers up, hauling back with both hands on the sword – and with a warrior's cry, slices through the rest of the way to take The Master's head off.

Quinlan stares with some amazement as The Master falls, body to one side and head to the other. And as he stares, his vision blurs and darkens – but he does catch sight of something before everything goes black. A worm comes slithering out of The Master's severed head, different from the hundreds of others – bigger, longer and reddish in color. Quinlan squints at it, wondering if he's really seeing it or just imagining it, as it slides between a gap in the boards and disappears.

Quinlan touches his chest, soaked with his own white blood – staring at his hand and realizing how seriously injured he really is. Then his legs buckle – and he drops to the ground beside The Master.

* * *

 

At the end of the pier, Eph sees Kelly and Eichhorst coming and picks Zach up, lifting him over the rail. "Get down to the boat!" he yells – just as Eichhorst grabs Eph from behind and yanks him away.

"No! Dad!" Zach shouts, as Kelly runs up to him and pulls him back onto the pier. Kelly starts to drag him away – but Zach sees Eichhorst beating up on Eph, knocking him down, and he knows he's about to get stung. So Zach breaks away from Kelly, running back to Eph and jumping in front of him as Eichhorst is about to release his stinger.

"Don't hurt him! Please!" he yells. Eph tries to push him out of the way, but Zach won't budge. "Get him out of here!" Eichhorst says to Kelly.

"I'll do whatever you want," Zach says. "I'll stay with you, just don't hurt him! Please!"

Eichhorst grabs Eph by the throat, pulling him close. "You have a courageous son, Goodweather. You're lucky to have a child who is so very _unlike_ you…otherwise you would not survive this day," Eichhorst says, then he turns to Kelly.

"Get the Lumen," he says. Then he shoves Eph away and pulls Zach up. "Come along, young Zach."

Kelly finds the Lumen and picks it up in her gloved hands as Eichhorst brings Zach. "What about The Master?" she asks – and it's then that they all see Quinlan beheading The Master.

"No…" Eichhorst says. He and Kelly exchange shocked looks, both of them feeling a sudden disorientation as The Master's controlling inner voice leaves them both.

Eph sees The Master go down as well – and he takes the opportunity to make a move for Zach. He tackles Kelly, sending the Lumen skidding out of her grasp. They tussle, and Eichhorst jumps in, helping Kelly to get free – then he picks up Eph like a wrestler about to do a major body slam. And Zach looks on in horror as Eichhorst then throws Eph over the rail and into the water.

 _"_ _No!"_ Zach yells, about to dive over the side too. Kelly snatches him back, but it's then that she and Eichhorst see Setrakian, Fet and Petey closing in from the other end.

"Let the boy go!" Setrakian shouts, silver grenade ready in his hand.

Eichhorst's evil smile beams at Setrakian. "A230385…"

"I see the book," Fet says. "Do it, Professor! Chuck the grenade!"

"Professor! Get the book!" Zach yells, straining against Kelly, who snarls in his ear. "Stop it, Zach!"

"You don't care about me!" he yells back. "You just killed Dad! I hate you! I hate all of you!"

Eichhorst then snatches Zach away from Kelly, baring Zach's neck by his ready mouth.

"Let us pass or the boy dies, Abraham!"

A tense few seconds pass – then Setrakian pulls the pin on the grenade and throws it.

**_BOOM!_ **

As the silver blasts everywhere, Fet runs in and grabs the Lumen. He tosses it back toward Setrakian and Petey. Then he goes for Zach as Kelly and Eichhorst writhe in agony on the pier.

"Come on, Zach! Let's go!" he says, offering him a hand. Zach looks back at his mother, Eichhorst, and somewhere out in the bay, Eph. Then he takes Fet's hand and they run back toward Setrakian, who's grabbed up the book.

They all stop at the horrible scene of The Master's headless body – and Quinlan's lifeless one. Setrakian stares especially hard at Quinlan for a moment – and then looks to Fet.

"Mister Fet, Miss Petey…would you be so kind as to get Mister Quinlan into one of the cars. We'll take him with us."

" _What?_ " Fet says. "What the hell for? He's dead!"

"Not necessarily. Let's get him up."

"I think you need to tell me why before we do this."

"No, what we _need_ to do is get the hell out of here before Eichhorst and Mrs. Goodweather get enough strength back to come after us! Now _move!_ " Setrakian shouts at Fet, and then takes Zach by the hand and leads him to the Humvee. Fet and Petey exchange looks – and then Fet curses under his breath as they pick up Quinlan and half-carry, half-drag him to the SUV Eichhorst drove up in and load him into the trunk.

"You take Borno here, follow me back, alright?" Fet says.

Petey nods, uneasily. "He's not gonna come back to life and jack me while I'm driving, is he?"

"Uh…no…I mean, I don't think so. I still think he's dead," Fet replies – and then he catches sight of something moving down on the beach. "What the hell's that…?"

"What?" Petey says, looking – they both walk toward it, and as they get closer they both squint at what looks like something big flopping around on the sand. Then Petey realizes and books toward it, with Fet following behind. She struggles to run through the sand to get to Eph, who's crawled up onto the beach, half-drowned.

"Ohmygod, Eph!" she says, trying to help him up – just as Eichhorst jumps down on them from the pier, knocking Petey away to get at Eph. Eichhorst does his damnedest to attack him even though he's horribly mangled and still burning from the silver.

**_BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG!_ **

The shots ring out and knock Eichhorst flat on his back, freeing Eph, who scrambles to his feet but stumbles in the sand. Petey catches him and they all stare in horror at Eichhorst, now looking about as dead as The Master.

Gun still smoking, Fet keeps it aimed in as he backs them all up. "Let's go, come on…before your wife decides to join the party," Fet says. They hurry back to the vehicles, where Setrakian and Zach have gotten out. Zach runs to Eph and practically tackles him with a hug as they get into the Humvee.

And as they drive back to the Olympian Club, Setrakian runs his elderly hands over the Lumen's ornate cover, mulling over everything that just happened. He slowly realizes how his own hesitation to act led them all here, to this place, on this night – how it led Quinlan, and apparently Ephraim, to go around him. _Foolish…risky…nearly got us all killed._

But it seems like they've won – the Lumen sits safely back in his grasp, Eph has his son in his arms in the backseat – and The Master lies dead on the pier, thanks to Quinlan's sacrifice. But for some reason, Setrakian doesn't feel the satisfaction that he expected would come with The Master's death.

If anything, he feels like something else, something bigger and even worse than what they've already been through – has just started.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: This chapter contains sexually explicit content.

**_Chapter 8_ **

_Olympian Club_

The kitchen becomes a makeshift hospital, as Fet and Eph struggle to carry Quinlan in. Setrakian and Zach follow in behind, watching as Petey clears off the table and lays down some sheets from one of the guest rooms.

"Christ," Eph grunts. "He's a lot heavier than he looks."

"Yeah…it's all that angst. Must add at least twenty extra pounds," Fet replies, looking to synch up their movements. "On three…one…two…three!" Together, they swing Quinlan back and then up to clear the tabletop, his severely wounded body landing with a rather indelicate **_thump!_**

"Careful, guys," Petey says, as Setrakian walks up to the table and looks Quinlan over. Zach approaches as well, fascinated by what he's seeing.

"Who is he?" he asks, looking to Eph – who just makes a pained face, catching Setrakian's accusing eye.

"Long story," is all he says.

"Yeah, but a good one. _I'd_ sure love to hear it," Fet says.

"Miss Petey…would you be so kind as to tend to Mister Quinlan's injuries? I'm afraid I must steal Ephraim away for a bit," Setrakian then says.

"Oh, uh…sure," she replies, not looking at all comfortable with the idea. "I'll just get my stuff." She leaves the room for a moment, and as soon as she's gone, Setrakian, Eph and Fet all exchange knowing looks. Then Setrakian looks to Zach, who's still checking Quinlan out.

"Why don't we find you a room, Zach? Come on, I'll show you around," he says. Zach looks to Eph, who just nods – so Zach dutifully leaves with the Professor, making sure to keep his pace slow to match his. Fet eyes Eph for a second or two after they've left, then he looks Quinlan over, shaking his head.

"Y'know, I'm tempted to finish the job…just end this troublemakin', half-breed fuckstick right here, right now," he says, making a "gun" with his fingers and putting it to Quinlan's temple, and pulling the trigger. "Boom."

"Well, he did just kill The Master…you might give him some points for that," Eph says, to which Fet wags his eyebrows.

"True…can't argue that. And it's clear the Professor still wants him around…but I still hate him," he replies, turning to leave as Petey returns with her backpack and an EMS bag from Safe Streets Command Center.

"You stealin' from Feraldo, naughty girl?" Fet teases, elbowing her.

"No," Petey replies, elbowing him back with a knowing smile. "I _borrowed_ it. I figure with the risky shit you guys are into, I should start carrying some basics around with me."

"Fair enough. C'mon, Doc," Fet says to Eph, holding the door open. "You got some ess-plaining to do."

"Hey, Eph," Petey interrupts. "You got any suggestions here? I mean, you're probably the only MD with any real experience in Strigoi anatomy. How do I do this?"

"Carefully," he replies. "Use double gloves and a UV light. First sign of worms, you fry 'em and back off."

"Okay, but I mean…does he even have the same organ structure?"

Eph sighs and shrugs. "Your guess is as good as mine. I autopsied someone after they'd turned...the virus really does change everything internally, in a remarkably short time. But I would think, given that he's half-human, that you'll find more familiar than different."

Petey sighs too. "Yeah…that makes sense."

"If you need help, just let me know," he says, walking out – but Petey turns to catch him.

"Hey…I'm glad you got Zach back safe."

Eph nods, smiling thinly. "I'm glad you guys showed up when you did," he says, and then leaves with Fet, the door swinging closed – leaving Petey alone with the unconscious, lifeless Quinlan. She approaches the table tentatively – feeling suddenly ignorant, as if she didn't have any of the experience she knows she has. Arms folded across her chest, she leans over him and sees three bullet wounds in the torso, deep cuts on his cheek and what looks like a stab wound down around where the kidneys would normally be in a human.

"Damn…you sure can take a beating," she mutters. Then she takes a few seconds to just watch his chest rise and fall with regular breathing. "Well, at least we know you've got lungs," she says – then she sighs, hard.

"Quit being such a pussy. Get started already."

Petey unpacks the EMS bag with the basics for first aid, simple surgery and a UV flashlight. She takes off the bulky "I ❤ NY" sweatshirt she grabbed from a gas station C-store on her recent clothes-shopping trip with Eph and gathers her hair into a sloppy bun. Then she washes her hands, puts on two sets of gloves and goes about stripping the layers of Quinlan's gear and clothes, starting with the scabbard holding the sword.

Curious, Petey draws the sword out, slowly and carefully. She feels the weight of it and admires the craftsmanship – white-bloodied silver coating the heavier iron underneath, and finally the primitive carvings in the bone handle. And like anyone else who's ever seen it, she can't help but wonder whose femur it is and why they were so important to him. Then she puts it away and moves on to the shoulder holsters, wresting them off and setting them aside. She maneuvers him out of his coat and hoodie, unlaces and pulls off his boots, undoes his heavy belt and unbuttons his vest.

"Jesus, how much shit are you wearing, dude?" she says, as she continues to peel him down like an onion until she finally gets to the last shirt. She bags up all the soiled clothes and then takes a minute to really look at him – the full, naked form of an actual hybrid creature – marveling at the similarities and even more at the differences. Especially when her eyes drift down to his crotch and she sees no penis, no testicles… _like a real-life Ken doll._

"Holy shit…that is _crazy,_ " is all she can say. Then Petey gets closer to examine the wounds, ready to hit him with the UV light if she needs to. But as she checks every cut, every splotch of white blood, she doesn't see a single worm. Feeling a bit safer, Petey runs her double-gloved fingers over the skin on his arm, noting its translucence, the dark veins showing through – and the texture, which reminds her of a real python-skin purse she once considered buying for about ten seconds before she saw the price tag. "Wow," she says, before she goes about the job of cleaning him up. She dunks a dishtowel in a bowl of soapy water and mops up the dirt and blood. Then she takes a close look at the gunshot wounds, having to turn him on his side to check for exit wounds. She doesn't see any of those – but what she _does_ see horrifies her.

"Oh my god," she says as she touches an old scar, one of many across his back – the kind of cuts made by a whip. _A cat-o-nine-tails from the looks of it,_ she thinks and cringes as she notes the depth of the cuts, the jaggedness. She rolls him back to lay him flat again, not wanting to imagine how he got those scars. Instead, she focuses on the job at hand – digging out the rounds.

"Okay…I'm gonna need music for this. _Lots_ of loud music," she says, and digs in her backpack for her phone, scrolling her way through her stored music, grinning when she finds a perfect fit. She stretches her neck and shakes out her wrists and hands as Red Hot Chili Peppers' "Give It Away" blasts out of the phone's teeny speaker.

She zones out to the work, her head nodding along to the driving beat and the throbbing bass as she gets started digging out the first round. And as the time passes and Petey moves from wound to wound, the music shuffles around in time, bouncing from decade to decade.

She decides to take a break for a minute and walk around, rolling her shoulders, stretching her spine. She strips off the gloves and puts on a clean pair as a true one-hit wonder comes on, Robert John's "Sad Eyes." She chuckles to herself as she listens to the very definition of cheesy, lite-FM, finding herself swaying to its easy rhythm and singing along. Feeling some of the pent-up stress of the last few hours, days and months leaving her, Petey sits back down and gets to work on the cuts on Quinlan's face.

And to her surprise, as she gives the cuts another wipe with a prep pad, she notices that they're already starting to heal up on their own. "Wow...guess you don't even need this, but I'm already here so I might as well do it anyway,"" she says, as she spreads some antibiotic ointment on the cuts and seals them with butterfly bandages. Then she notices an older scar in the same general spot, running down into his chin. She traces her fingers along the unusual birthmark on his face – a dark, twisty line that runs straight down the center of his forehead and then branches off over both cheeks and down his neck. She lifts his chin and turns his head it to look at the even more unusual feature on his neck – grooved lines that form a filigree design across his throat with a reddish color to it, almost like a brand. Then she moves down his torso to the stab wound, also showing the beginnings of healing itself.

"That's amazing," she says, spreading on the ointment and applying the butterfly bandages. Then she covers him up with a blanket from one of the guest rooms. She shuts off the music and then sits on the edge of the table, looking him over again.

"Where the hell did you come from?" she says, as if he could hear her.

* * *

It had been a long time since Quinlan had sustained such major injuries – centuries, in fact. It was in London, when he last confronted The Master and it ended so disastrously. Quinlan prepared his whole life up to that point to kill the thing that made him – but when the moment finally came, he hesitated.

In that moment, he remembered what his adopted mother, Ancharia, had taught him about the ancient prophecies – they said that when The Master died, so would he. And for once in his long life, he finally had something to live for _besides_ fulfilling that dark destiny. He had found Louisa and her daughter Lydia – or rather, they had found him – and they had become _his_ dear ones.

He didn't want to lose them – he didn't want to die.

The Master saw Quinlan's fear and took advantage of his hesitation, impaling him with his own sword. And by the time Quinlan was able to return to Louisa's home, The Master had already attacked her and Lydia. He left them lying neatly in bed for him to find, knowing Quinlan would have to kill them both to keep them from turning.

Quinlan can't even remember now exactly how long it took before the wound healed. In fact, he can't remember much of anything from the time right after Louisa and Lydia died. He just remembers what it felt like – like he'd fallen into the deepest hole imaginable and spent what felt like eternity at the bottom. And though he doesn't know if he was ever really alive, after their deaths, he felt like he had died too. He shut down, withdrew from the world and didn't return to it for a very long time.

But now, as Quinlan lies unconscious on the kitchen table at the Olympian Club, not even knowing that he survived – he hears things. Feels things. Things he's not sure are actually happening. He hears a woman's voice speaking softly – humming, singing. He feels the delicate touch of a woman's fingers moving across his skin – and it releases a flood of buried memories, primal and ancient.

* * *

At the height of the Roman Empire, mankind was simultaneously at its zenith in technical ambition – and at its lowest in actual humanity. Blood sport was the most popular form of entertainment, filling every seat in the Colosseum with people anxious to forget their own misery by watching others die. They would cheer as entire families of Christians were fed to wild animals – but even more popular than that were the gladiatorial games, pitting men against each other in grisly fights to the death. And in that deafening, overwhelming, blood-lusty mania, Quinlan became one of the Colosseum's brightest stars.

And with that celebrity, Quinlan – or Quintus, as he was called then – found himself starring in his very own one-Strigoi freak show. The city's rich and powerful prided themselves on owning curiosities and their sexual exploits – the more depraved the better. Quinlan's patron, Senator Sertorius, was wise enough to keep most of the degenerates away by using the excuses that Quintus had to stay focused for the games, and that no civilians be put in close quarters with him as a safety measure. But even with the senator's influence shielding him, Quinlan couldn't keep everyone away – and so the first intimate experience he ever had with a woman was there in the stone bowels of the Ludus Magnus, the gladiator barracks and training camp connected to The Colosseum.

_Antonia…that was her name._

And a glorious vision clad all in white was she. A centurion led her to his cell one night, and in she glided trailing white silk that didn't merely clothe her – it enveloped her, making her seem like some kind of divine vision. And that was no accident, as she was not just any woman. She was one of the _Vestales_ – the virgin devotees of the goddess Vesta, responsible for maintaining her temple and tending the fire of the hearth. Vestal Virgins were held in high regard, with more power than any other Roman women of the time. They even had their own special seats near the Emperor in The Colosseum. But their high status also came with high risk if they broke the rules – the most serious of all, of course, being the loss of their virginity. The penalty if caught was to die of exposure and dehydration by being buried up to their necks outside the city gates.

But Antonia knew exactly what she was doing when she bribed her way into Quinlan's cell that night, and the power trip was just as pleasurable to her as the things she planned to do.

"I am Antonia," she'd said to Quinlan in a sweet, musical sort of voice, after she sent the centurion away. "Can you speak?"

"I can," Quinlan replied, after giving her a good, wary once-over.

"Do you have a name? Other than 'Barbarian Gladiator?'"

He'd hesitated to say, Quinlan remembers – as if letting her have just that bit of information gave her power over him. "My name is Quintus," he eventually replied, in exactly the way Ancharia had taught him years before.

"So you are the fifth of your line?" Antonia asked.

"I am the only one left," he replied, and she made a pitying expression, venturing closer.

"Truly? There are no more like you, in all the world?"

"Correct."

And Quinlan remembers how she smiled then, how it spread across her face in a cunning, devious sort of way. It made him nervous – and nothing ever made him nervous.

"How wonderful," she then said, stepping closer still so that they were only inches apart. She let her veil drop back and hang in the crook of her bent arms, revealing her luxurious, silken brown hair that smelled of roses. But as intoxicating as the smell was – as she was – Quinlan remembers backing up from her.

"What do you want with me?" he'd asked – and with that, she simply tugged on the lace at her cleavage. Her gown loosened and fell right off her shoulders, landing on the stone floor with a gentle whooshing noise. And Quinlan remembers taking in the sight of her, lit by the small fire he was permitted to keep in his cell. Antonia was a beautiful creature – and that wasn't a matter of opinion. She was perfectly proportioned, without a blemish or a scar anywhere. _Flawless._ But still, when she advanced on him again, he backed up again.

"I do not understand," was all he could say. He felt stupid, especially when she smiled at him again in that condescending way – and he didn't like feeling stupid. But it was as if she had the power to immobilize anyone with a look.

"You do not have to understand. Just let it happen," Antonia replied. She took his hand and placed it on her breast – and Quinlan remembers drawing in a sharp breath, never having felt anything like it. He never imagined anything in the world could be that smooth, that soft. She then took his other hand and drew it around her waist, spreading his palm out over her behind.

"You are a Vestal…the consequences are dire if you break your vows," he remembers saying – and he remembers how she laughed.

"Yes, that is true," she replied. "But I have no intention of breaking my vows."

Quinlan remembers having no idea what the hell she meant at the time. He was too distracted by his own bloodlust, churning inside him like the sea during a storm. Antonia's heart raced, speeding blood through her veins and he could feel it. Hear it. Smell it. And it clouded his mind. It made him dizzy – made him lose his sense of place and time. He vaguely remembers Antonia moving his hand from her breast and slipping his fingers in her mouth. The heat and moisture, her soft tongue rolling over his skin – he'd never felt anything like it before. Antonia slicked up his fingers with the spit in her mouth and then moved his hand down, over the nipple on her breast, making herself whimper with the pleasure she was giving herself with his hand. Then she steered his wet fingers in a line down her belly, into the patch of hair covering her sex.

Quinlan remembers very distinctly how Antonia tried to kiss him then, and how he had just enough of his wits about him to turn his head away, knowing he wouldn't be able to stop himself from attacking her if she persisted. And persist she did, pushing fingers into her – but not _too_ far. Not far enough to break the vow. Just skirting the outside.

And they both moaned then, out of sheer reflex. Quinlan remembers looking right at her then, and she at him as she controlled his movements and he let her. She rocked her hips back and forth against him, gradually increasing the speed, the force. Her breathing grew ragged and she moaned louder, moving his other hand back to her breast to rub her nipple, which hardened under the pressure and made her cries even louder. She rode his fingers to climax, and Quinlan remembers how her body stiffened and jolted – and how the combination of feeling her, hearing her and watching her finally pushed him over the edge.

Antonia gasped as Quinlan latched onto her throat with his stinger, savoring her blood like humans did their wine. He didn't drain enough to kill her, but only because the guards rushed in then. The centurion who brought Antonia in carried her out of the cell while the guards beat Quinlan within an inch of his life.

Quinlan never forgot how it felt – how scary and incredible the experience was. And down in the deepest recesses of his subconscious, where he lingers now in his injured state, Quinlan finds that longing still exists there – a longing to feel that terrifying thrill again.

* * *

Fet tosses some towels at Eph as they gather in the study with Setrakian, who pours them all a shot of expensive bourbon from one of the Club's decanters. They each take one glass and look at each other – not really knowing if celebrating is what they should be doing.

"Good work, gentlemen…good work," Setrakian says, lifting his glass. Eph and Fet do the same and all three of them down their shots, wincing slightly with the burn as the bourbon races down their throats. Setrakian puts down his glass and then sits down behind the desk, where the Lumen sits, no worse for wear.

"Now," he says, "Would you mind telling me what the hell just happened back there?"

Eph sets his glass down and collapses onto the couch, rubbing his face. "I would think that'd be pretty self-explanatory at this point," he says.

"Why did you not come to me first?"

"Because I knew you'd say no."

"You didn't tell me The Master was holding Zach hostage for the Lumen. That makes the situation completely different."

"Does it? I mean, really…would it have made a difference to you? Would you have gone for it?" Eph asks, and off Setrakian's hesitation to answer, he nods. "Yeah…I didn't think so. And apparently, Quinlan didn't either."

Fet sits on the edge of the desk, arms folded across his broad chest, shaking his head at Eph. "That still doesn't make it right, going behind our backs like that. I mean, I get it…but still, that was a dick move, man."

"I know. I'm sorry," Eph offers, looking to Setrakian, who nods after a moment.

"In all fairness, I realize now my own part in all this. Ever since The Master got away from us, I have been unwilling to confront him again," he says. "I suppose I have used the Lumen as something to hide behind."

Eph and Fet look at each other and then at the Professor, surprised by the unusual candor. "Well, I think the important thing now is to figure out what to do next," Fet says. "I mean, The King Rat's dead and that's awesome, but there's still thousands of Munchers out there. Not to mention Eichhorst and your lovely ex. Somehow I don't think we've seen the last of them."

"No, you're right about that. There's still much to be done," the Professor says. "But we should leave that discussion for the morning. We all need to rest."

"Uh…hold on a sec," Fet says. "What the hell are we gonna do about Borno in there? Please tell me you're not keeping him around after what he did."

Setrakian sighs, sinking back in the chair. "Did we not just settle this?"

"No, we settled with the Doc. He was just trying to save his kid… _that_ I get. Quinlan's another story altogether."

"What would you have me do, Mister Fet?"

"Kick him to the fuckin' curb, that's what!" he replies. " _We cannot trust him._ Or is a blown-up safe not evidence enough for you?"

"The Master is dead. There's nothing left for us to get into conflict over."

"Oh, no? What about the rest of the Ancients? You think they've forgotten that you still have the Lumen? Or have _you_ already forgotten that they're the ones who brought Quinlan here in the first place? I mean, where do you think his loyalty's gonna lie now? I'll give you a hint…it ain't with us."

Setrakian glances at Eph, who just shrugs. "I got no opinion on the matter."

"You spent some time with him."

"Well, yeah, but it's not like we're golfing buddies now or anything. I doubt we spoke more than fifty words to each other the whole time. But I get the distinct feeling that Quinlan doesn't give a shit _what_ we think of him. He'll do as he pleases and there won't be much we'll be able to do about it."

Setrakian looks back at Fet, who shakes his head again. "He'll go for the book again, I'm tellin' ya. He'll deliver it to the Ancients and then we'll _never_ get it back," he says – and Setrakian looks down at the book for a moment. Then he picks it up and gets up from the desk.

"You both make some good points," he says. "Until we can figure out a better way to safeguard the Lumen, I'll keep it with me at all times. Now I am exhausted. I really must get some sleep…as should you. Goodnight, gentlemen."

Fet throws his hands up, exasperated. "Professor, what—" he starts, but Setrakian cuts him off.

"I don't think The Born is in any shape to kill us all in our sleep tonight. We'll figure out what to do about him tomorrow. Goodnight."

As Setrakian shuffles out of the room, Eph gets up to follow. "Zach picked out a room upstairs. I'm gonna go check on him and then probably collapse and pass out," he says, stopping to chuck Fet on the shoulder.

"Hey, listen…thanks for, y'know…saving my ass," he says, and Fet smirks.

"Well, it's such a nice ass. Couldn't very well let anything happen to it."

They both take in the stupidly awkward joke and then crack up. "Shut up," Eph says, and then leaves. Fet lets out a long sigh once he's alone in the study and pours himself another shot of the expensive bourbon. Then he sits down behind the desk and kicks back in the chair, resting his huge, dirty boots up on the desk. He keeps grumbling to himself about Quinlan while he finishes the bourbon, then he lets his head drop back – and it only takes a moment before he's asleep and snoring.

* * *

Quinlan emerges from the murk of his unconscious with a jolt, as if he'd just been shocked with electricity. He breathes raggedly as he sits upright and immediately tries to stand, not remembering how injured and weak he is. But it all comes back to him as soon as he feels the terrible loss of control that comes with falling. He slips off the table and lands on the cold floor, hard enough to elicit a pained grunt.

Petey startles awake at that, jumping up from the cushy armchair she pushed in from the lounge. She sprints over to Quinlan to help him up – but as soon as he feels her touch, he smacks her hands away.

"Don't touch me!" he says. Petey backs off, looking at his face, his eyes – he's totally disoriented. She puts her hands up and then slowly kneels down in front of him.

"Hey…it's just me, Petey…you're okay…just take it easy, alright? Easy…" she speaks evenly, softly – the kind of tone one would use to calm a skittish horse. Quinlan looks around, things gradually settling down in his mind. Then he looks at Petey, recognizing her – and slowly realizing that he's not dead.

"Where are we?" he asks.

"We're back at the Club."

"Where is The Master?"

"Still in a bloody heap on the pier, I would think. You cut his head off," Petey replies, and Quinlan has to rattle his brain for a moment to put all the events of the last twenty-four hours back together.

"Yes…I killed him…but…then why am I still here?" he asks, though it's more rhetorical than directed at her.

"'Cause you're a tough sonofabitch," she says, and he looks at her sharply before realizing that she's paying him a complement. "Look, I would love to continue this conversation, but why don't we get up off this cold-ass, uncomfortable floor first? C'mon," she says, moving to take his arm – but he recoils.

She sighs. "Chrissake, don't be such a _dude…_ jesus…"

Quinlan stares at her, speechless, as she grabs his arm, wraps it around her shoulders and with a well-practiced move, she hauls him up to standing, leaning him against the table. Before he can even think to protest, she's grabbed his ankles and lifted his legs up onto the table, forcing him to lie back down. Then she picks up the blanket she'd had on him before and lays it over him.

"I'm gonna turn the overhead light on for a minute, check your stitches. Watch your eyes," she says, and Quinlan has to shut his eyes for a second when the brightness hits them. When he opens them again, Petey's right there above him, her own eyes focused on the cuts on his cheek.

And then she smiles – and even though Quinlan knows it's not really him she's smiling at so much as she's marveling at his self-healing ability _…still, she's…_

_…_ _she's lovely._

Petey carefully pulls the butterfly bandages off his cheek, and then she moves down to check the stitches. As she does, a lock of her hair comes loose from the messy bun on top of her head. It falls right in Quinlan's face, sliding down his cheek and landing on his neck – and despite himself, he twitches at the feather-light sensation of it. Petey sees it, and pushes the hair back behind her ear.

For a few awkward seconds, they stare at each other. Then Quinlan squirms, trying to sit up again.

"You really needn't trouble yourself, Miss Fet. I've recovered from far worse than this on my own," he grumbles – but Petey clamps a firm hand on his shoulder, keeping him down.

"Oh, no…no way you're gonna undo all the work I just did. Stay down, please," she replies.

Quinlan feels the heat from her hand warming his cool skin and it just makes him want to run. "Don't be ridiculous," he says, removing her hand as he sits up – but as soon as he does, Quinlan feels his eyes rolling around inside his skull like loose marbles. The room spins, and he starts to fall over – and Petey has to catch him before his head hits the table.

"Uh-huh," she says, her tone flavored with sass. "Yeah, we're all very aware what a badass you are, Mister Quinlan. But I'm afraid right now your brain and your body are having a bit of a tiff. So you can try standing up all you want, but your body's just gonna keep saying, 'fuck you.' So again, my professional advice? Stay down."

As much as he wants to prove her wrong, Quinlan just can't. Now that he's lying down again, he feels like absolute steamrolled shit – and all the will he had just seconds before has completely vanished. Petey adjusts the pillow under his head and slides the blanket up over him again.

"Where are my weapons?" he asks.

"The sword's over there. Fet has the guns, I think…or they might still be in the truck, I dunno. Everything happened kinda fast back there. Your clothes, though, are another story. Unless you _want_ to wear bloodstained stuff full of holes, I think you're gonna have to do some shopping," she replies, and Quinlan nods but can't bring himself to care much about what he wants to wear at the moment. Petey gathers up the surgical tools and turns her back to dump them in the sink and wash them – and without realizing it, she starts humming as she works, drawing Quinlan's attention.

He watches her through half-lidded eyes, her voice lulling him back down into the fog of fatigue again. He doesn't want to sleep anymore, but he's in the unusual position of being – helpless. All he can do is listen to Petey and let his eyes drift over the back of her body, seeing her bare arms, a bit of her shoulders and a glimpse of her back whenever her shirt rides up. He follows her lines down as they flow slightly inward at her waist and back out over the curve of her hips.

It makes him think of his dearest Louisa again, of the times they were intimate during their all-too-brief time together. He loved just looking at her, admiring the innate beauty of the female body. He thinks of the first time he ever got to touch her, when he fed on her because she asked him to. He found her bare legs under the mountain of her skirts, and her skin was so smooth, so soft and warm. She smelled like flowers and her blood was the most amazing thing he ever tasted. There was kindness in her touch and her voice. Being with her was the most intoxicating experience he ever had – it was pure bliss. It was the first time he experienced what no pure Strigoi ever could – including The Master.

It was love.

And as Quinlan lies there drifting in and out, riding the line between life and death, he realizes that what he wants – even more than to destroy The Master – is to experience it again.


	9. Chapter 9

**_Chapter 9_ **

_Coney Island_

In a cold, dark furniture warehouse not too far from where The Master lost his head, Eichhorst and Kelly Goodweather lie on couches recovering from their wounds. They're surrounded by at least fifty other Strigoi, all huddled together, asleep on the floor.

As he lies as motionless as possible, Eichhorst worries, having no idea if The Master survived – and unable to hear his guiding voice. The plans for New York and the entire world now lay in a terrible state of flux _…what will become of us all? Who will lead us now?_

Eichhorst groans as he shifts around, the pain from the silver burns and gunshot wounds excruciating. One thing he knows for certain – The Born, Setrakian and his entire wretched band of followers would pay in the most heinous way possible.

Suddenly though, a stabbing pain in his head causes Eichhorst to cry out. Across the room, Kelly does too, and so do all the other Strigoi lying on the floor. In fact, every Strigoi everywhere feels it, as a booming voice sounds off in their heads.

"Fear not, my children…I am still with you," it says. "Rest now, and wait for my instructions."

"Master…?" Eichhorst says, in awe and relief.

"Thomas…my most trusted servant. Find the boy," The Master says, and Eichhorst groans.

"Forgive me, my Master. I cannot…my wounds are too severe. I fear I have failed you."

"Never. You have not abandoned me, so I will not abandon you. I will be with you soon. I will heal you and then you will find the boy. Bring him and the mother to me. Then the plan will go forward."

Eichhorst smiles, as much as he can. "Yes, my Master."

* * *

_Olympian Club_

Everything's quiet as Petey walks around the Club a little later, with everyone asleep except her. She smiles at Fet as she lays a blanket over him, still passed out in the chair behind the desk. Then she strolls around perusing the Club's bookshelves, full of vintage hardcover editions of old books – most of them about sports, which she couldn't be less interested in if she tried. But here and there she comes across a classic hidden in the filler – some Dickens, Fitzgerald, Twain. Then she lets out an ironic laugh when she finds a slightly moldy-smelling copy of _Dracula._ She pulls it off the shelf and leafs through it, a story she hadn't read since high school.

"Hmm…might be educational now," she says to herself as she tucks it in her arm and heads back to the kitchen. She drops the book in the armchair and then quietly moves about, looking for something to eat. She digs around in the cabinets and finds a half-eaten can of sweet-and-spicy beer nuts and takes them back to the chair. She settles in, throwing a blanket over her legs and cracking open the book as she nibbles on a handful of peanuts, cashews and pretzels.

And it's only a few minutes into reading about poor Jonathan Harker and his ill-fated trip to Transylvania before Petey starts nodding off too. She's half-asleep when she hears Quinlan moving around – she opens her eyes and sees him sitting up, attempting to stand again.

"Shit," she mutters, dragging herself out of the chair. "What're you doing?" she says, with a yawn.

"I'm getting up," Quinlan replies, just as tiredly.

"No, you're not."

"Are you going to try and stop me?"

"Don't need to try…the shape you're in, I'll succeed," Petey says, about to push him back down – but he blocks her arm.

"Please, Miss Fet," he says. "Just let me stay here."

Petey looks at him – and he at her – and they both see the fatigue in each other's eyes. She realizes she doesn't really want to get into a thing over him sitting up any more than _he_ wants to get into a thing over being forced to lie down.

"Alright, fine…for a few minutes. Then you gotta get horizontal again, got it?" she says, relenting – and he nods, compromise reached. Petey shuffles over to the light switch and turns the overheads on, making Quinlan blink and squint.

"Might as well check your stitches," she says as she comes back to him, looking first at the cuts on his face. She touches his chin, gently turning his head and he lets her – then he notices that she's grinning.

"What?" he asks.

"I think I've said this a hundred times since we brought you back here, but I gotta say it again _…wow,_ " she says. Quinlan touches the scars, the memory coming back to him of The Master slashing his face open.

"A few more for the collection," he says.

"Yeah…and that is _quite_ the collection you have," Petey says – and Quinlan suddenly realizes that she was the one who took his clothes off. He looks away from her and Petey has to grin, never imagining that he would be bashful about anything _...huh…kinda sweet._

"Where is Dr. Goodweather? Is his son alright?" Quinlan asks, changing the subject.

"Yeah, he's okay, thank God. We thought we lost Eph there for a minute, but he's okay too."

"What do you mean? What happened?"

"Well…I'm not sure, I mean, we were too far away to see everything, but Eph must've fallen off the pier or gotten thrown off by those other two Strigoi. He dragged himself out of the water and then the one guy attacked us. Thank Christ Fet was there, he put like, four rounds in the dude to put him down."

"Eichhorst."

"What?"

"That's his name, Thomas Eichhorst. The Master's Nazi puppet. It's unfortunate that Fet didn't kill him."

"Wait, did you say Nazi? As in World War II Nazi?"

"What else would I mean?"

"Well, that would make the guy like, a hundred years old, wouldn't it?"

"You seem to forget he isn't a 'guy.' He is Strigoi. He stopped aging when he turned," Quinlan says, stretching his neck and shoulders.

"Oh…right," Petey says, shifting around, pulling the sleeves down on her sweatshirt to cover her hands like gloves. Then she folds her arms in, not really knowing what else to do – or say.

"Well, at least everyone's okay. The Professor even got the book back," she says, and Quinlan looks at her, more of the last twenty-four hours returning.

"Is he…very angry?" he asks, trying not to appear too worried.

Petey just shrugs. "I don't know him well enough to be able to tell the difference between angry and just generally surly, which he seems to be most of the time," she says – and Quinlan smirks just a bit at that.

"He is that."

"But he doesn't seem to be any more surly than usual though, if that makes any difference. It was his idea to bring you back here…and I would think, if he was really that pissed off at you, he would've just left you there on the pier," Petey then says – and Quinlan looks more directly at her then, her words ringing true. A silence passes between them, less awkward now, somehow – but the longer it stretches out, the more uncomfortable it becomes for both of them. Finally, Petey shifts her stance again, clearing her throat.

"Alright, enough stalling," she says, gesturing for him to lie back down. Quinlan eyes her for a few more seconds and then reclines, without an argument. Petey throws the blanket back over him and adjusts the pillow under his head. Then she returns to the armchair and tucks her legs under her, snacking on some more beer nuts and looking at the book even though she's not actually reading it.

"You don't have to stay here, you know," Quinlan calls to her. "I don't need a chaperone just to sleep."

"Just doing my job," she says, keeping her eyes down. "Now shut that mouth and close those eyes, please. That's _your_ job."

And lying on the table, under the blanket she just laid over him, Quinlan has to grin at her sass, hearing the same kind of feisty attitude in her voice as he does in Fet's _…a definite family resemblance._ But it's much more appealing coming from her.

* * *

Eph wakes up suddenly, remembering the shock of hitting the water when Eichhorst tossed him off the pier like a puny fish that wasn't worth reeling in. The bed shakes as he bolts upright at the foot of the cushy guest bed, startling Zach, who's up at the head of the bed. Eph looks at his son as he tosses a bit and then turns over on his belly, grabbing one of the pillows and hugging it, making a contented "hmmm" sound. Eph lets out a breath that's half disbelief and half joy at seeing him there. He moves up to be next to him, turning on his side to face him and watch him sleep, peacefully.

And then Eph starts crying like a baby, as the depth of what's happened sinks in – not just tonight, but months, years before. It all hits him like a speeding truck, the chaos of this young child's life. Bags full of it, that no child should have to carry – that they don't have the strength to carry without causing serious, lasting damage. Chaos that Eph had more than a hand in loading him down with. He touches their foreheads together, putting a hand on Zach's soft hair.

"I'm sorry…" he whispers. "I'm so sorry, Zach."

He feels the anger rising inside as he says the words – anger at himself for failing Zach so miserably – for failing Kelly, for failing Nora. And the guilt rises up with it, making him want to hit the vodka so bad it hurts.

But he also realizes that he has no more chances to use up, no luck left. He can't afford to screw up anymore where Zach is concerned. _He's all I have left._ They're words he's said to himself before, a line of reasoning he's gone down numerous times – but the events at the pier make Eph realize he can't just say the words. He can't just make half-hearted promises. He has to lock his shit up tight – because if he doesn't, the next time The Master, Eichhorst or Kelly comes after Zach, he won't get him back.

And then he really will have lost everything.

* * *

_Cadman Plaza Park, Brooklyn_

Dutch Velders sits in the park across from the courthouse building now being used as the headquarters of the Safe Streets Initiative. She'd been sitting there for hours, huddling under a ratty blanket she found on her way there. Just that morning, she'd been with an old friend – or someone she _thought_ was a friend. Braden, a fellow hacker and anarchist from back in the day _…'back in the day' being like, six months ago, jesus. Feels like six years._

She hooked up with him and the survivors he'd hooked up with. Having the experience that she'd been fortunate to acquire (or unfortunate, depending on how one looked at it) with the Strigoi, she'd tried to talk him and his naïve friends out of raiding a high-rise in Bushwick for food. But they were determined – and stupid – and she suspected, it didn't go well. Strigoi were hiding in every dark space, and her old "friend" Braden scampered off, leaving Dutch to fend for herself. But it didn't end well for Braden, either. He got bit, and since his remaining "friends" were too scared to deal with him once they found out, Dutch took him out – half out of rage, half out of pity. With one swing of her sword she took the top half of his head off. She walked out right after, looking cool and badass – but it totally fucked her up.

Of course, her entire life had been pretty well fucked up – or so she thought. She _thought_ she knew what a hard life was. Her troubled childhood, adolescence and angsty early adulthood led her into every kind of trouble, until she finally found trouble she was good at and could make a living at – hacking. Dutch imagined herself the Robin Hood of the digital Sherwood Forest, robbing from the haves to give to the have-nots – which led her to taking that fateful job for Eldritch Palmer. For the street cred and a shit-ton of Stoneheart's money, Dutch broke the internet – and in no small part, helped usher in the vampire apocalypse.

Only now is she realizing – _really_ realizing – what a mess she's made. What fucked up _really_ is. Dutch wipes eyeliner-stained tears from her face, pulling the blanket tighter around her. She stares at the Safe Streets HQ, weighing her dwindling options. Her first thought upon leaving headless Braden and his doomed crew behind was to go back to Fet. She still wanted to. She missed him – a lot. Unfortunately, she'd screwed the pooch with him, too. Ditched him to go back to her girlfriend, Nikki – but that too, like everything else lately for her, crashed and burned spectacularly.

_Yeah…fucking dumpster fire…that'd be a fitting description of my life these days. Way to go, Dutch…well done._

Bottom line on Fet was that she was terrified to go back and find herself unwelcome. She didn't want to see the hurt in his eyes again – hurt that she caused. She didn't want to feel the accusing eyes of Eph and Nora and Setrakian on her. So, what else could she do? Strike out on her own? She could do that. She was more than capable of taking care of herself and any Munchers that came along. _But then what…and for how long? No…_ that option just seemed too fucking aimless and hopeless to seriously consider.

So the only other option Dutch could think of is what led her to Cadman Plaza. She remembered fighting alongside Councilwoman Feraldo and the NYPD during the massive fight with the Strigoi everyone was calling "Battle of Red Hook" now. Dutch had been so impressed by Feraldo's strength, courage and leadership. Truth be told, Feraldo was everything Dutch imagined herself to be. And as hopeless as everything seems to her right now, Dutch thinks maybe, just maybe, this could be a place where she could repair some of the damage she's done. Finding Fet, Eph and Nora and the Professor and fighting The Master alongside them gave Dutch a sense of purpose – and she needs that again.

Dutch suddenly remembers something she'd said to Braden that morning – that humanity was circling the drain. That it was the beginning of the end. And she realizes that it's a simple choice, really: wander around and wait for that inevitable end – or do something to keep that end from becoming inevitable.

_Quit screwing around, you flighty bitch…get back in the fight._

Dutch wipes her raccoon eyes and drops the blanket, standing up. She sniffs back her tears and her fear and walks over to the building, banging on the glass doors. An NYPD officer on the watch inside approaches, giving her a wary look.

"Yeah?"

"I need to see Councilwoman Feraldo," Dutch says – and the officer chuckles.

"Lady, d'you have any idea what time it is right now?" he asks.

"Do I look like I care? It's important…trust me, she'll _want_ to meet me," Dutch replies.

"And who the hell are you?"

"Tell her I'm the one who broke the internet. Tell her I'd like to help her fix it."

* * *

A nasty pain in her neck wakes Petey up later, at some godawful early hour of the morning. She sits up, wincing with all the stiffness in her body from falling asleep in the chair. She stretches slowly, carefully, not wanting to pull any muscles. She rubs her strained shoulders, rolling them back and forward as she looks over toward Quinlan, still asleep on the table. She walks over to check on him – and makes a worried face when she sees how he looks.

She touches Quinlan's face, lightly placing her palm on his cheeks, his forehead – she looks at her palm and it's wet. He's sweating, but he's cold – even colder than when they brought him in – and it gives her a terrible feeling, like he's slipping away. She runs over to the door and turns on the lights, and then goes back to him, taking off the blanket to see the wounds.

"Shit," she breathes, when she sees the stitched wounds seeping white blood – same with the stab wound. The deeper wounds aren't healing, which means his self-healing ability is fading – which means Quinlan's probably fading, too. And she has no idea what to do.

So she does the only thing she can. She grabs a towel and wets it down, mopping up the sweat and blood. Then she lightly slaps Quinlan on the cheek to rouse him. "Quinlan," she says. "Hey…hey! Wake up!"

She keeps slapping him on the cheeks, each one harder until he finally blinks. He tosses his head around, eyes unfocused – Petey turns his face to look at her.

"Hey! Stay awake, okay?" she says, and he finally looks right at her.

"You just told me to go to sleep," he replies – and she can't help but smile.

"Yeah, I did, didn't I? Sorry," she says. "Listen…you're not doing so good. I think you have something like a fever…your wounds aren't healing up anymore. They're getting worse, actually. So you gotta help me out here. I don't…I don't know how to help you."

Quinlan stares at her, kind of through her, hearing her but at the same time still sort-of out of it. He reaches out and grabs her hand – and when he feels her pulse, he starts breathing heavier.

"What? What do you need me to do?" Petey asks, and he shakes his head.

"This was not supposed to happen."

"What're you talking about?"

"I was not…supposed to survive," he says, and Petey just makes a confused face.

"Okay, I don't know what that means, but it doesn't help me _or_ you. Tell me what you need _right now_ to make you better," she says – but as she says it, she suddenly realizes what the solution is.

"Ohhh…oh, shit…you need blood, right? _Right?_ " she says more urgently – and Quinlan just looks at her, all at once sad and dreamy, resigned and hopeful.

He nods.

Petey stares at him, and suddenly remembers the first time they met. She was terrified of him, and fairly sure for a few seconds that he would kill her. And now here she is asking what she can do to save him – and the strangest part to her is how right it feels.

"I didn't see any worms in your blood. Do you carry the virus?" she asks.

He shakes his head.

"You're sure? Absolutely sure?"

He nods.

Petey takes a deep breath – and then moves his hand off hers to lift her wrist up to his face. "Okay…take it," she says, and Quinlan shuts his eyes at the nearness of her, bloodlust bubbling up through his near-delirium.

But he shakes his head again. "I can't ask you to do this," he says.

"You're not," she replies. " _I'm_ telling _you,_ it's okay. Just, y'know…don't kill me."

"Why…?"

"Why what?"

"Why are you doing this? Why are you being so…kind?" he asks – and for the first time in a long time, Petey finds herself truly speechless. She starts to say something, but it gets stuck in her throat like something she swallowed too quickly.

"I'm just…I'm just doing what the Professor asked me to do. I'm just doing my job," she finally replies. Quinlan stares at her more directly, more focused – and it makes her feel _…weird._ Petey sees more of that cold sweat running down his face and his breathing turning into more like shivering and she uses it to break the gaze. "Come on, we don't have a ton of time here. Let's get this done," she says.

He stares at her for another moment – then he pushes himself up on his elbows. He shuts his eyes to concentrate on her pulse, the closeness of it, the smell of her blood and how much he needs it.

 ** _Thwap!_** That quick, his stinger lashes out, latching onto her vein at the forearm. Petey sucks her breath in as she feels it puncture her skin – and suddenly she thinks, _maybe this wasn't such a good idea._ But as the seconds pass and the pain subsides, a sort-of rhythm settles in. Petey looks at the stinger attached to her arm, following it to Quinlan's open mouth, and his eyes, looking at her. And somehow, she can tell that he's thinking the same thing – but it's too late now.

So Petey closes her eyes, trying to keep her breathing even and calm – and Quinlan closes his too, relishing her blood flowing into him, and wanting to take as much of it as he can because she tastes so damned good. But he knows he can't take too much more – the last thing he wants is to hurt her.

He lets her go, the stinger detaching and rolling back into his mouth. Petey opens her eyes, gasping again as the connection breaks. She leans on the edge of the table, woozy – then she pushes herself up to standing and looks at the new hole in her arm, not quite believing that any of this is actually happening.

"Okay…okay…" she whispers, as she folds her arm up to stop the flow of blood. She just keeps whispering "okay" to herself, over and over, as she walks slowly and kind of drunkenly, back to the armchair. Quinlan watches her as she collapses into it and curls up in a ball, pulling the blanket around herself, shivering a bit. She lets her head rest on the arm and closes her eyes, going almost immediately to sleep.

Quinlan just keeps staring at her until his own eyes get heavy again.

"Thank you," he whispers.

* * *

A terrible smell stirs Petey awake, punching its way right up her nose and into her brain like smelling salts. She contorts her face in disgust as she opens her eyes. She can't see where she is, it's so dim. She places a palm down on what she assumes is the armchair she fell asleep in – only to find that it's no longer there.

Just cold concrete _…or maybe stone?_ _And a godawful smell…jesus…_

Then she hears what sounds like thunder at first, up above her somewhere. But then she realizes it's people – a cheering, roaring crowd of what must be thousands. Petey stands up and walks toward a light source ahead, coming from under a closed door. She coughs and gags at the horrible stench, waving blindly at the flies she feels and hears buzzing around her head. She trips on something then, stumbling, falling back down to the stone floor, her hands landing on something wet.

Before Petey can look at her hands, she hears approaching footsteps and men's voices speaking another language, one she finds she sort-of understands, being in medicine _…Latin?_ The men unlock and throw open the door, flooding the chamber with sunlight.

And just as Petey realizes that she recognizes the horrendous smell, she sees the source of it – piles of dismembered human body parts. She screams at the top of her lungs as she leaps to her feet, running toward the men who have entered the chamber.

"Hey! Please help…please help me!" Petey shouts – but the men act like they don't hear or see her, as they collect some of the hacked-up arms and legs, tossing them without care into a wheelbarrow. And even though she's spent years around blood and guts, something about seeing people treated like butcher shop scraps and smelling the overwhelming rot makes her abdomen spasm. She runs out of the chamber, grabs onto the wall and doubles over, retching over and over and over even though nothing comes up.

She sinks down the wall, her shirt catching on the jagged edges of the stones. The roaring of the crowd draws her attention toward a gate up ahead, blasted with sunlight. She hears animals – horses, lions, tigers – and the clashing of metal. She walks to the gate, squinting against the blinding sun until her eyes adjust. And Petey gapes when she takes in the view, because she can't believe what she's seeing – or where she apparently is.

All her life she'd wanted to see Italy, especially Rome. Of course, she expected to see ruins surrounded by traffic, tourist traps and quaint little cafés – not be transported back in time to the Empire at its height. And she certainly didn't expect to see what she's looking at now.

Petey grasps the gate lattice as she stares into the arena of the Colosseum, focusing on a group of people huddled together in the center – mostly women and children, cowering in fear, screaming for help. But the crowd, filling rows and rows and rows of seats climbing up to the sky – they're thrilled, excited, savage – raising their fists and shouting at the top of their lungs.

Then a different roar, that of lions, pierces through the crowd noise. Petey puts two and two together and tears instantly spring to her eyes. "Ohmygod…" she whispers – but what she fears is exactly what happens, as two male lions restrained by heavy lengths of chain are suddenly released. They pounce on the group of Christian prisoners – and then all she sees is blood, spraying everywhere. But the piercing cries of the dying get drowned out by the thunderous noise of the crowd as they cheer and howl with bloodlust and self-righteous rage.

Petey turns around, desperately looking for a way out of the nightmare she's trapped in – when she sees a group of men walking right toward her. She makes herself small in the corner as they stop right before her – but just like the men in the chamber of body parts, they don't see her. They just stare straight ahead, all of them strong, shirtless and armored, wearing helmets and carrying swords.

_Gladiators._

The gate opens then, and the men file out. Petey looks at them all – but then something catches her eye. One of the men looks much paler than the others – and carries a sword with a bone as its handle. Her breath catches as he passes by her and then stops.

"Oh my god…Quinlan…?" she whispers – and he turns slightly, as if he heard her. But then she realizes that he didn't, as he bends down to scoop up some of the wet sand. He rubs it on his arms and his head and face and then keeps walking, entering the arena.

She follows him out and then hangs back, watching as he files to the center with the others – but then he separates from the group, standing opposite from them.

Petey listens to the man announcing the match, trying to remember her Latin – and she makes out the word _Invictus...meaning invincible._ And something about an undefeated record. Hundreds of kills. And the crowd goes wild for the one the announcer calls the "Barbarian Gladiator." She watches Quinlan bow to his opponents and then – chaos. Swords clanging, men shouting, slicing, stabbing and shrieking – and then nothing.

Nothing except a half-dozen bloody corpses, Quinlan – and an adoring crowd screaming his name. But he walks out of the arena the same way he came in, calm and quiet, past Petey and back through the gate. She follows him, watching closely as he stops just out of view of the crowd, and just out of the sunlight's reach. Petey gapes as she sees wisps of smoke coming off his burnt skin.

Quinlan rubs off the sand that kept him only partially protected, and then he lifts his sword, examining the long blade. Then he opens his mouth and his Strigoi tongue unfurls, the tendrils sliding over the blade, collecting the layers of blood. Then he walks off, disappearing down a long, dark tunnel to who knows where.

Petey sighs as she starts crying again. And she's not even sure _why_ she's crying – except that she's overwhelmed by it all, by this ancient arena of horrors. And seeing Quinlan in it, alone, feeding himself with only what he could lick off a knife. She recognizes a familiar loneliness in him, the same loneliness she's often felt – that of being ostracized, unwanted – she understood what that felt like.

And apparently, so did he – probably better than she ever did.

Petey's tears fall faster and freer then. It all makes sense to her – and yet none of it does. She backs up against the wall and sinks down to the sandy floor, pulling her knees in and burying her face. And all she can do is sit there and cry – and hope that she wakes up.


	10. Chapter 10

**_Chapter 10_ **

_Olympian Club_

Fet enters the kitchen in the morning, expecting to find Petey and her patient still in there – but it's empty, and everything's been cleaned up, like nothing ever happened. Even the chair that Petey had been sleeping in is gone, moved back to its place in the lounge. Making a face, Fet goes down the hall to Petey's room and knocks on the door.

"Pete! You decent?" he calls – but there's no reply. He knocks louder, and tries the door, which isn't locked, so he pushes it open slowly. "Pete?" he calls again, as he pokes his head in. He doesn't see anything, so he opens the door wider to look around. Everything's quiet, and the only thing he does see is a mountain of mussed blankets and pillows on the bed.

Fet walks around to the head of the bed and finally sees her blue hair sticking out from under a pillow. He lifts it up and digs around under the blanket to find her shoulder, giving it a shake. "Hey…rise and shine, honey child," he says – gently, but loud enough to be heard. Petey doesn't move, so Fet shakes her again, harder this time.

Still nothing. Making a worried face, he pushes off all the blankets and sits down beside Petey, turning her over. She seems to weigh a ton, like she was made of stone. "Petey! Hey! C'mon, wake up!" he says, watching her chest rise and fall. _At least she's breathing…_ but she's stone cold unconscious.

He's about to run and drag Eph out of bed when Petey suddenly gasps, her eyes flying open wide. She flails wildly as if she were drowning, and Fet has to corral her in his big arms to keep her still. "Whoa—whoa! Pete, it's okay!" he says, as she looks around, disoriented – and scared, which Fet notices more than anything else. He hugs her tighter and speaks quietly, to reassure her – like a parent to a frightened child.

"Hey, Petey-girl, bring it down a notch, okay? It's just a bad dream, is all. Just a bad dream. You're okay now…that's it…there you go…shhh…" he says, as her body relaxes and her breathing slows. Fet keeps her locked in his arms for a moment, swaying back and forth with her, just whispering a soothing "shhh" in her ear. Petey grabs onto his arms, settling into his protective embrace – needing the reassurance after everything she saw in her mind.

"What time is it?" she finally says, and Fet laughs.

"Oh! She speaks! She speaks, ladies and gentlemen! The dead have arisen!" he jokes, and she cracks up, smacking his arm.

"Shut up," she mutters, burying her face in his elbow.

"It's almost nine. You hungry?" he says.

"You kiddin'? I'm always hungry."

"Good. So get your ass up and get dressed."

"Right," she says, and he gets up, picking up the blankets he dropped on the floor and dumping them on her. She laughs again and tosses a pillow at him.

"Seriously…you okay? You kinda scared me there for a sec," Fet says, and Petey nods.

"Yeah, it just…" she starts, and then sighs. "…it was a long night."

"I can only imagine," Fet replies, heading for the door. "I'll make you some eggs. C'mon."

"Be right there," she says – and then suddenly realizes. "Fet," she calls, and he turns around.

"Thanks for putting me in bed. My neck would be totally fucked right now if you hadn't."

He makes a confused face. "Whaddaya mean? I didn't put you in here. I woke up in that goddamned chair an hour ago. Now _my_ neck's totally fucked," he says. They both share a puzzled look – but before Fet can say anything, Setrakian's voice booms down the hall.

"Mister Fet!"

He sighs. "Duty calls. C'mon, get your shit together, I wanna eat before we head over to HQ."

"Yeah, yeah," Petey says, totally preoccupied now with trying to remember the last six hours or so. As soon as Fet shuts the door, Petey looks down at her arm and sees the puncture mark, still red and sore. She curses to herself, jumping out of the bed and stomping into the bathroom. Petey sticks her arm under the sink faucet and runs the water, washing the wound with soap. Then she splashes her face a bunch of times, until she looks like a drowned rat when she looks in the mirror.

 _Stupid…_ she thinks over and over, getting angrier with herself until the word becomes audible. "Stupid, _stupid,_ **_stupid!_** " Then she stomps out of the bathroom and digs the EMS bag out, digging around in it for the bandages. She wraps some gauze around her arm and then dresses in a rush, tossing the EMS bag over her shoulder as she dashes out to join Fet and the others. She hears the clinking of dishes and the pleasant noise of conversation coming from the kitchen as she enters the hall – and she stops, suddenly panicked that she'll see Quinlan if she goes in there. She almost books for the elevator, but then her stomach rumbles and she feels the emptiness, needing to be filled. She smells eggs and ham cooking and coffee brewing and drool builds up in her mouth.

"Fuck."

She pushes open the kitchen door a touch, just to peek in – and the first thing she notices is that everything's been cleaned up. She sees the Professor at the table, stirring honey into a cup of tea. She sees Zach sitting next to him, eating cereal with almond milk from a box. She hears Fet and Eph – but no Quinlan. She makes a face, wondering where the hell he is if not in there. She slowly pushes the door open all the way, making her entrance – and all the guys look up at her.

"Hi," she says.

"Good morning," Professor motions to the chair across from him. Petey smiles at him and sits down, dumping the EMS bag on the floor.

"There she is," Eph says as he pours her a cup of coffee and pushes it at her. She takes it gratefully and then looks to Zach. "May I?" she asks, pointing at the almond milk. He pushes it to her and she dumps a bunch into the coffee.

"Eww, what're you doing to that perfectly good coffee?" Eph says, and she laughs, pushing the milk at him. "Try it," she says. He makes a face at her, but then does it, pouring in a glug-full. Then he stirs it and takes a sip – and then he looks at her with an impressed face.

"I'll be damned."

"I know, right? Usually I hate health food shit…but _that_ shit works," she says, and then suddenly remembers Zach's sitting there. "Oops…sorry. Don't repeat that," she offers.

Zach just chuckles. "Kids in my class say way worse shit than that," he says, and Eph shoots a look at him.

"Yo!"

"Sorry."

Everything's quiet for a second, as everyone exchanges looks – then all at the same time, everyone cracks up. And then Fet starts serving up the eggs – everyone passes the plates around, and for a few glorious moments, it's like a family get-together. Everyone eats and talks and enjoys each other's company. Then as it inevitably must, quiet settles in and reality returns as Setrakian looks across the table at Petey.

"So…it seems your patient has made a successful recovery. Good work, Miss Petey."

She looks at him blankly for a second – and then she nods. "Yeah, well…he does most of the work himself."

Setrakian sips his tea and shakes his head. "Not this time. He said he most likely would have died had you not intervened."

"He said that? When?"

"Just a little while ago."

"Well, where is he now? I mean, last time _I_ saw him he was still passed out on this table."

Setrakian narrows his eyes at her, unsure what's going on – but he's also not sure if he should really start grilling her in front of everyone, especially with Zach there. "Oh, well…you must understand that Mister Quinlan is–"

"A fuckin' asshole?" Fet interjects, without thinking – and Zach snickers as Eph rolls his eyes and punches Fet in the arm.

"I was going to say mercurial," Setrakian finishes.

Eph stands up, tugging on Zach's shirt. "Okay, buddy, we better hit it. Justine's gonna be furious if I don't deliver more toxin today. So you're gonna help me cook it up. Let's go, clear your dishes," he says, and Zach shovels another spoonful of cereal in his mouth before getting up.

"Bye, Professor," he says – and Setrakian can't help but grin at him. "Can I see the book when we come back?"

"Yes, of course. I'll see you later."

"Cool. Bye Fet…bye Petey," he says, and they both smile at him as he takes off after Eph out the door. Fet elbows Petey and they go about clearing the table.

"We better hit it too. We gotta fill Justine in on what happened, figure out the next step."

"Yes, that's the wise thing to do. I'll continue on with the Lumen with Mister Quinlan," Setrakian replies, giving Petey another inquisitive glance. She catches his eye and counters with a thin smile, then she follows Fet out the door.

Setrakian finishes his tea after they've gone, thinking – wondering what happened – knowing, in his gut, that something _has_ happened. And as he tidies up the kitchen, he knows he's going to have to get some answers from Quinlan.

* * *

In a guest room a couple of floors up, Quinlan lays out the clean clothing that Setrakian found for him – items left behind by Club members in their lockers. He looks them over, actually finding himself grieving the loss of his old clothes. Not because they were especially valuable, but because he'd had them for so long. He allowed Setrakian to dispose of everything except the coat, which did have sentimental value. Even though it looked threadbare and shabby now, Quinlan still wanted to keep it. He couldn't exactly say why, though – except for the fact that it was what he wore when he first came to work for the Ancients and found the closest thing to a family he had ever had with the Sun Hunters, whose emblem they pinned on it. Even though his relationship with them and with the Ancients had deteriorated and was now tenuous at best, the pin and the coat reminded him of better times – when he felt like he belonged somewhere.

He dresses slowly, still not feeling quite back to normal. For the first time in a very long time, he _feels_ his age, as he attempts to slide the new trousers on and every joint and muscle feels stiff, uncomfortable. He sighs at that, thinking what an impressive specimen he must look like at the moment. Before he puts the shirt on, he walks over to the mirror on the closet door and examines his wounds — not to mention Petey's excellent suturing work. The scars wouldn't look so bad thanks to her.

_Petey._

He owes her now _…big time, as the humans like to say._ She let him feed on her, something Quinlan still can't quite believe actually happened. For a second he wonders if he imagined it, dreamt it maybe. But when he closes his eyes, he feels it – feels _her._ Petey's blood courses through his body now, continuing to heal it and bring it back to life. It shouldn't feel any different than any other person's blood, it shouldn't be more nourishing than anyone else's.

And yet it _does_ feel different to him – better, somehow – which confuses him and excites him at the same time. He remembers that one loose lock of Petey's hair falling in his face. He traces the path with a finger, recalling the sensation of it – something he hadn't felt in ages, since his dearest Louisa – an electricity of sorts that sent a disturbing, thrilling shock through him. He doesn't like what he's feeling – or more accurately, he doesn't like that he likes it. But he can't deny that he wants nothing more than to be around Petey again.

* * *

_Safe Streets Initiative HQ – Brooklyn_

Fet walks into the HQ and stops dead when he sees the all-too-familiar face ahead of him. He blinks a couple of times, in case he's imagining it – but he's not.

"Shit…" he mutters, as Petey comes up behind him.

"What?" she says, following his gaze to the woman sitting at a table ahead of them, with a trio of laptops in front of her attached to a spaghetti-like mess of cabling running all over the floor. She's pretty in a grungy sort of way, her hair a disheveled array of shades of blonde with dark roots, and enough black eyeliner to make her look like a raccoon.

"Oh, don't tell me, your ex, right? You gonna introduce me?" she jokes, and Fet just looks at her with a mix of hurt and embarrassment.

"Don't be a dick," he says – and Petey instantly regrets it. "Sorry," she replies, and grabs onto his arm, nudging him affectionately.

"C'mon, we gotta see Justine," he says, walking forward – but then Dutch's unique accent cuts through.

"Ohmygod, Fet!" Dutch says, running up to him and throwing her arms around his neck, hugging him tight. Fet squeezes her back, but only for a second, before stepping back.

"Hey," he replies, gently – but there's no mistaking his tone or body language. Petey looks between them and then steps forward to save Fet from having to say anything else.

"Hi, I'm Petey," she says, offering a hand, which Dutch just cocks an eyebrow at. "I'm his sister," she then says – and Dutch's face takes on a whole different look. She shakes Petey's hand, in shock, mostly.

"Oh…hallo," she says. "I'm—I'm Dutch…Dutch Velders. Nice to meet you."

"Yeah, you too. So…what're you doing with all that techie gear?"

"Oh, well…back before all this shit started, I used to be in the corporate sabotage business. Now I'm in the employ of Councilwoman Feraldo. Who'da thunk, right?"

"Yeah, who'da thunk. Thought you left town with Nikki," Fet suddenly says, and they both look at him. Dutch glances down guiltily, then back up to look him in the eyes.

"Well, _she_ left, with her mother. I wasn't invited. Thought I'd try hooking up with some of my old mates, but that didn't work out, either. So I thought I'd do something useful for a change and try to fix what I broke."

Fet lingers on her, and Dutch on him – and Petey feels like the proverbial third wheel. She's about to excuse herself when Councilwoman Feraldo's unmistakable voice interrupts them.

"Hey, Fet! My guys're telling me something's up with the Munchers. You know anything about it?" she says, walking up to them. Being the intelligent woman that she is, she too picks up on the heavy vibes between Fet and Dutch, looking between them. "Oh, you two know each other?" she says.

"Yeah, yeah…hey, something pretty major happened last night," Fet says, quickly diverting by walking off and leading Justine away.

"What's he talking about? What happened?" Dutch asks. Petey just smiles awkwardly, shrugging a bit.

"Uh…well…I'll let him fill you in on that. He understands it more than I do. See ya later…nice to meetcha," Petey says, darting after Fet before Dutch can say anything else. Dutch watches them go into the sealed-off conference room, debating for a moment – then she hurries after them, letting herself into the conference room uninvited. Everyone stares at her, but she focuses her attention on Fet.

"Did something happen with The Master?" she asks, and he just laughs, bitterly.

"Oh…so you care about that now? You sure? I mean, which is it, Dutch? Do you even give a shit about the fight anymore? The _real_ one? Where's your loyalty today, huh? Which way's the wind blowin'?" he fires back, leaving Petey and Justine looking at each other in shock.

"That's not fair! Nikki was important to me, you knew that!" Dutch yells back, tears welling up in her eyes.

"What I know is she took off and left you behind when you were surrounded by Munchers, but all she had to do was bat those 'woe-is-me' eyelashes atcha, and poof! You're out!"

"Whoa, guys! This isn't the time or the place for personal—" Justine starts, but to everyone's surprise, Fet cuts _her_ off.

"No, actually it's the perfect time, Councilwoman. You should know who you're dealing with before you let her get too involved…or you get too attached. Dutch ain't exactly big on commitment to anything, or _anybody_."

Dutch stifles a sob as she takes the hit – but she doesn't go down. She takes her well-deserved punishment, balling her fists to keep her shit together. "Yeah, okay…you're right. I deserve that. But I—I'm trying, Fet. I really did come here to do what I can to get the city's network back online. I wanted to come back to you and the Professor first, but I…I was scared. I didn't think you'd want me back."

Justine looks over at Petey, who just looks back at her, shrugging cluelessly. So Justine gets between them like a referee. "Okay, okay, look, everybody just take a breath, alright? Clearly you two have a ton of personal shit you need to work out, but y'ain't doin' that here, you got me? So put your shit aside for the moment and get back to telling me what the fuck is goin' on out there with the Munchers, Fet. Right now!"

Dutch clams up, folding her arms. "Sorry…I didn't mean to make a scene. I'll leave you to it," she says, and ducks out quick. Fet shifts around, feeling like a heel, ashamed at his own behavior.

"Yeah, me too. Sorry about that," he says to Justine. "So…anyway…well, to make a long and complicated story short, we think The Master is dead."

Justine inhales with near-delight – but then stops. "Wait—you _think_? You don't _know_?"

"Bolivar's head got separated from the rest of him, that much I know for sure, 'cause I saw it," Fet replies. "And we hit his Nazi lieutenant with enough silver to fuck him up for life. But, I dunno…somethin' ain't sittin' right with the Professor. I think he's afraid that The Master might still be able to jump to another host. So until we know for absolute sure that he hasn't, I guess we can't get too excited. But the good news is…without The Master's psychic-voodoo voice tellin' 'em what to do, the Munchers should be easier to kill."

Justine paces around a bit, considering – then she turns back to Fet, nodding. "Well…it's better than nothing, I guess. I'll get Frank to double up on our patrols, take advantage of the situation while they're vulnerable. You been in touch with Eph?"

"Yeah…yeah, he was with us last night when it happened. He went back to Red Hook to finish up a new batch of toxin for ya."

"Alright. You and Frank should head out then, see what's what, yeah?" Justine asks.

"Absolutely," he says, and as she leaves Fet turns to Petey. "You alright here for a while?" he asks.

"Yeah, I'm good," she replies, though it's with a strong hint of fatigue that Fet can't help but pick up on.

"You sure? You seem a little wonky to me," he says, quietly.

She cocks an eyebrow. "Wonky?"

"Yeah, y'know…wonky," he says, with a grin.

"Oh, is that like 'hinky'?"

"Definitely a synonym, yeah."

"Well, then, no, I'm not wonky. I'm just…tired. You do remember I was up all night attending a sick vampire. And that is not something I ever, _ever_ thought I would say," she says, with a tired laugh.

Fet leans over and kisses her cheek. "Be good," he says and then breezes out, clearly excited to be getting back into some action. Petey strolls out and into the bullpen, looking for Dutch. She finds her back in her element, madly tapping away on one of the laptop keyboards.

"Hi," she says – and Dutch looks at her, anxiously.

"Hi."

"So, uh…as there doesn't seem to be anyone needing medical attention at the moment, you wanna get a cup of coffee?" Petey asks – and Dutch just stares at her, as intrigued as she is put-off by Petey's gregariousness. She sits back in her chair, looking her up and down.

"I had no idea he had a sister."

"Yeah, well…I didn't know he had a girlfriend," Petey replies, and Dutch has to laugh, however ironically. She nods as she shuts off the laptops and gets up.

"Yeah, fuck it. Let's go. I actually have my own stash of French roast," she says, tapping her backpack as she slings it over her shoulder.

"Nice," Petey replies – and as Dutch walks by her, Petey feels a twinge in her forearm. She massages the sore spot, flexing her stiff hand and fingers. She makes a mental note to check the wound as soon as she can – and she thinks of Quinlan, hoping she doesn't see his life in her dreams anymore.

* * *

_Olympian Club_

As Setrakian waits for Quinlan to join him in the study he peruses the Lumen, paging forward from the last bit of translation they'd done – which only told them things they already knew about the Ancients. Setrakian makes a face when he sees the ancient papyrus pages ahead, scrawled with line after line of what looks like Arabic.

"Goddammit…couldn't anyone who put this blasted thing together have written in English?" he fumes, slamming the book shut and shoving it away just as Quinlan finally makes his appearance.

"Is everything alright, Professor?" he asks calmly, and Setrakian looks up at him, somewhat embarrassed.

"About as alright as can be expected," he says, leaning back in the chair. Then he looks Quinlan over and makes a satisfied face. "You look…better," he replies.

"Not quite back to full capacity, but certainly better than last night. Thank you for the clothes, by the way," Quinlan offers as he sits down on the couch, grimacing a bit, still uncomfortable. "Where has everyone gone?" he asks.

"Ephraim took Zach with him back to Red Hook, and the Fets have gone to meet with Councilwoman Feraldo, to let her know what happened last night," Setrakian says. Quinlan nods, only really interested in finding out where Petey had disappeared to.

"Are you ready to continue?" Setrakian asks.

"Of course."

"Well then, glove up and have a look at this," Setrakian says, tossing him a pair of leather gloves, which Quinlan slips on before Setrakian hands the Lumen over to him, open to the pages written in Arabic. Quinlan touches the ancient papyrus, briefly remembering the days when it was the only way to record the written word. _So many years ago._

"It is Arabic, is it not?" Setrakian asks.

"Yes…Egyptian," Quinlan replies, his whitish eyes scanning the symbols, translating in his head. "This is only a partial document. It begins in the middle of a sentence, but it seems to be a record of what they believed to be a plague of disappearances. People in the villages disappearing and then returning to their families changed. They had turned into creatures seeking blood," he reads, turning the pages. Then he makes a puzzled face. "Well…the account cuts off there, and then this last bit here was attached to it. It reads, '…and the end of the blood-creatures' dominance over man will come when the house of red and white is built and strong enough to stand on its own.'"

Quinlan looks up at Setrakian, who stares back at him. "'The house of red and white'…a curious term. I can only imagine it's referring to an allegiance of humans and Strigoi against The Master…perhaps all of the Ancients," he says, and Quinlan nods.

"Perhaps it has already been built. _We_ are working together, after all," Quinlan replies.

"Are we?" Setrakian asks, his tone pointed, making Quinlan shift around uncomfortably.

"Yes, Professor, we are. What Dr. Goodweather and I did was simply take advantage of an opportunity…one that we knew you would not."

Setrakian takes in the words, his expression softening a bit. "I understand now why you did what you did, Mister Quinlan. I also know now that I was partly responsible. Had I not been so…shall we say, inflexible…Ephraim surely would have told me as soon as The Master made his play for the Lumen."

"Dr. Goodweather is no hero…but he has no ill will toward you. All he cared about was getting his son back," Quinlan says, and Setrakian nods.

"Yes…I understand that, too. So let's just call it water under the bridge, shall we? So long as I have your assurance that you won't do anything like that again."

"You have it."

The two of them sit in a comfortable silence for a moment, looking each other as the equals they are. "Good…so now that we've gotten that out of the way, is there anything you want to tell me about what happened out there?"

"What do you mean?"

"Did The Master say anything to you? Anything that could help us?"

Quinlan thinks on it, glancing away – and a brief flash of the worms coming out of The Master's decapitated head pops in his mind.

"What?" Setrakian prompts.

"I saw something, before I passed out," Quinlan replies. "When I cut off his head, the white worms spilled out…but there was something else, too…a red one."

"A red worm?"

Quinlan nods, becoming surer of it the longer he thinks on it. "Yes…it was larger than the white worms, and definitely red. I'd never seen such a thing before. Have you?" he asks.

Setrakian shakes his head. "No…I've never even heard of it," he says. He gets up from the chair and paces around, feeling something clicking in his mind. "Did you see what happened to it?"

"I think it slipped between the boards. Who knows what happened to it after that."

Setrakian paces for another moment, and then turns back to Quinlan. "This could be why I don't feel more at ease even though The Master is dead," he says.

"Yes," Quinlan agrees. "I also do not feel as if anything was truly resolved."

"This red worm you saw…if even _you_ have not heard of it before, then…" Setrakian trails off, at a loss for what to do. Quinlan considers – then he stands up, an idea forming.

"We need answers…and there is only one place to go for that. Stay here. I will go and request audience. Then they will come for us."

Setrakian gives him a questioning look, then realizes what he means. "Very well…you'll be alright out there in the sun?"

"I'll make it quick," Quinlan replies. Setrakian nods – then on a sudden impulse, he calls out.

"Mister Quinlan."

He turns back around and Setrakian gives him a bit of a smirk. "It's good to have you back," he says – and Quinlan finds himself struck by the kind words, hard-earned and rarely given.

"Thank you for not leaving me behind, Professor," Quinlan replies. And Setrakian too, is struck by Quinlan's return gesture as he bows slightly and touches his chest – an old-fashioned sign of respect, just as hard to earn and just as rare. Then he dashes off, leaving a stiff breeze in his wake.

* * *

_Coney Island_

Still recovering inside the warehouse, Eichhorst awakens to find a Strigoi man standing over him – old, disheveled – no doubt one of the city's many homeless before the virus spread. Eichhorst looks up at him, wary, but still unable to do much to defend himself. Then the man's eyes flash orange and Eichhorst gasps in relief.

"Master…" he whispers, and the man stretches out a hand with jagged fingernails that grow as his hand gets closer to Eichhorst's face. The man uses his thumbnail to cut his index finger, and Eichhorst opens his mouth to receive The Master's essence. Three drops are all it takes, and then the man disappears in a flash.

Eichhorst closes his eyes, feeling the essence taking effect. He winces as the burns and the gunshot wounds heal up almost immediately, causing a burn of its own. But Eichhorst relishes this kind of pain, the exquisite pain leading to ultimate rejuvenation – strength and mental clarity beyond imagination. And because he serves The Master well, Eichhorst knows he will remain immortal with his free will intact.

He stands up, taking deep breaths that feel like fresh air even though it's heavy with stink and cold inside the warehouse. When he opens his eyes, he sees Kelly walking toward him, healed by The Master as well. They see each other as they truly are, without the makeup and wigs and clothes. They smile at each other, both of them elevated above the rank-and-file, the soldiers – they have been chosen.

"The Master said he is going to rest in the soil now," Kelly says.

"Yes…and once the sun has set, we will go and find your son," Eichhorst replies. Kelly looks down at that, sadly – but then Eichhorst lifts her chin to look at him.

"Do not fret, my dear. Your husband's victory is but a fleeting one. Ours will be forever," he says. Kelly straightens up at that, brightening with renewed pride in her mission – and her new Master.

* * *

_New York Public Library_

_Bryant Park, Manhattan_

Wearing his standard hood and goggles to protect him against the sun, Quinlan makes the trek down Fifth Avenue in a matter of minutes, trash and dead leaves flying everywhere as he speeds to the designated spot to send up a signal to the Ancients. He looks at the two large, marble lions flanking the library steps – sitting like Sphinxes on their pedestals, proud and stoic amidst the ruin around them. He approaches the one on the south end, named "Patience," digging in a hollowed-out nook under its flank to remove a flag that's been hidden in it. Quinlan unfurls the black flag with the red Sun Hunters' symbol on it and hangs it around the lion's head – then he moves over to "Fortitude," the lion on the north side, and does the same thing. Then he sticks a note back inside the nook with the Olympian Club's location on it. Now he would just have to wait for the patrolling Sun Hunters to see the signal and send for them.

Cloud cover rolls across the sky, giving Quinlan some respite from the sun, so he takes the trip back walking. He takes in the dead city around him, something he hadn't really done up until now, looking at the buildings surrounding him, imagining them full of people, noise and movement – full of life. Then he sees something dash across the street up ahead. He picks up the pace and goes after it, unable to make out who or what it is at first – it just looks small, with flashes of color. It stays ahead of him for a block or two before making a sharp turn. As the little shape disappears into one of the buildings, Quinlan picks up the distinct sound of _…a child's laughter…a girl._

Quinlan looks at the signs, a half-dozen businesses all crammed into a few buildings, and one catches his eye – a ballet school. Hearing music, he goes in and up the steps, drawn in by the light, lilting classical piece. He enters the studio and sees an unexpected sight – a group of little girls no older than six, all dressed in strange, glittery costumes, with painted fabric tied to their arms. He walks farther in, unsure what to make of what he's seeing – then he looks to the side and sees a group of adults watching the girls, all smiling and laughing as they watch the girls dance. Quinlan looks back at the girls and when he sees them wave their arms up and down, he realizes what they're supposed to be – butterflies. The girls prance and turn and jump in time with the music, some of them out of step, but charming nonetheless. Quinlan makes a face, knowing that what he's seeing can't possibly be happening right now.

_It must be from the past…but why…why am I seeing this?_

Then for a reason he can't quite put a finger on, one of the girls catches his attention. Out of the larger group, three of the girls single themselves out to do their own steps, ending with them doing a cartwheel and then posing adorably. But when the girl in the middle of the trio – although she looks like any other ordinary kid, with brown hair, light eyes and chubby cheeks – when she smiles, Quinlan's breath catches.

_…_ _that's Petey._

He watches, stunned and focused on her, as the group finishes the dance and the crowd of excited parents stands up and claps. All the girls then run to their families, getting hugs, kisses and encouragement. Quinlan watches little Petey, looking around for her somebody – but there isn't anyone there for her. Petey goes to the door and looks out – and then she turns back, all the joy gone from her face.

Quinlan feels a familiar tightening in his chest then, knowing exactly how the little girl feels. One of the teachers finds her and leads her back into the fold, telling her what a wonderful job she did. Then a woman comes rushing in, breathing hard from running, looking older than she is _…or was._ But as exhausted as she is, she still rushes up to little Petey and hugs her tight, kissing her cheek with a loud smack.

"She did beautifully. She's so excited for tomorrow night," the teacher says to the woman, with more than a hint of scolding in her tone.

"Yes, yes, so am I. I'm so proud of you, my angel…come on, get your things," the woman says, with an eastern European accent to her English. She ignores the teacher and practically drags Petey out the door.

"I am sorry I did not get here in time, angel. Work kept me late," Petey's mother says, as they go down the steps.

"You can't be late tomorrow, Mama," Petey says, and her mother kisses her little hand.

"I am leaving work early tomorrow, so I will be there to get you from school, okay?"

"Okay…is Dad gonna come?" Petey asks, and her mother's smile disappears – but only for a second, as she covers up with another smile, caressing her cheek.

"Oh, Petra…I don't know. We will see, okay? But for now, let's get you home before we get that costume all dirty. I think we should get pizza tonight, huh? What do you think?"

"Yay! Pizza!" little Petey says, all bad thoughts temporarily erased by the promise of cheese and pepperoni. Still standing at the top of the steps, Quinlan watches with amazement as the vision vanishes in front of him – but then he hears voices again, coming from the studio. He goes back in to see the room empty except for a teacher and a girl around ten years old. Working at the barre, the teacher shows the girl how to hold her body and balance in her new pointe shoes.

Quinlan moves in closer and around to the side to get a better look at the girl he knows is Petey, in what he knows now must be a memory of hers. He sees the concentration on her face as she lifts herself up on her toes, trying her first relevé. The teacher straightens Petey's legs, her posture and lifts her chin – and when Petey wobbles and drops out of position, the teacher scolds her. Petey drops her head and mumbles an apology before trying again – and again, and again, the work clearly hard on a child's body.

Then Quinlan hears music behind him and turns to see Petey again, older, looking more like the woman he knows. This time she's by herself, dancing across the studio to music from "The Nutcracker." Quinlan grins a bit at seeing her move so gracefully, making such difficult work look effortless. Then he hears voices and looks to see three blonde girls standing in the doorway, snickering.

"Give it up. You suck!" one of them says, the others giggling.

"What're you even doing, Petra? It's not like _you'll_ ever get to play Clara. You just haven't got the talent, much less the money to go to a proper school," another one says, strolling up to her with the others behind to back her up. "From the looks of it, your poor, single mom can't even afford decent pointe shoes. I mean seriously, look at those things…that shit is _ratchet._ "

As the girls crack themselves up, Petey shuts off the music and grabs her stuff off the floor. Then she walks right up to them. "You wanna say something else about my mother, you stuck-up little twat?" she fires, and all the girls gasp, totally offended – which makes Quinlan actually chuckle, just a bit, hearing that unique sass in her voice.

"What'd you just call me?" the girl says.

"Oh, you didn't hear? What're you, deaf too? _I said,_ you're a…stuck-up…little… _twat,_ " Petey replies, putting her face right in hers.

"Bitch! I will fuck you up!" the girl yells – but before she can even make a move, Petey makes hers and slaps her hard across the face. The air in the room stills, and all the girls look at each other in shock, including Petey. Then the girl who took the slap rubs her face, eyes stung with tears.

"Can't believe you did that…you fucking slapped me!" she says, and for just a second regret shows in Petey's expression – but then she straightens up, owning it.

"Well, what'd you _think_ was gonna happen? You think I'm just gonna stand there and take that kinda shit? Fuck you!" Petey says, pointing at her, "Yeah…fuck you _and_ your wack-ass pirouettes which everybody in class laughs at, by the way, including your little fem-bots here. Now get the fuck outta my way or the next one's gonna be a right hook."

The mean girls part to let Petey by without another word, and she heads down the steps – but not too quickly, and Quinlan follows her, knowing how she's feeling. _She's scared…afraid of what she's just done…what she knows she's capable of now…_ a feeling that Quinlan is all too familiar with. As Petey busts through the door, the girl she slapped gets one last dig in, yelling after her loud enough for people on the street to hear.

"Yeah, go back to Brighton Beach, you fuckin' Russian mail-order whore! Just like your fuckin' mother!"

The words are so hateful that Quinlan turns to look at the girl, his ire rising in Petey's defense – but then he remembers, she's not really there. None of them are. But as he turns and looks at the street around him, it transforms from the desolate ghost city back to its bustling former self, the Christmas lights and music in the air giving everything a joyful vibe. Petey stops just outside to rip off her pointe shoes and stuff them in her bag, replacing them with a worn-out pair of sneakers. Then she takes off down the street, and Quinlan stays with her.

Young Petey navigates the sea of people, traffic and noise like a pro – keeping a quick pace and her eyes straight ahead, not looking directly at anyone. She digs in her jacket pocket – a jacket Quinlan notices is much too thin for the cold – and pulls out a cigarette and lighter. He watches as she stops at the subway entrance, leaning up against the rail while she lights up the cigarette.

Quinlan moves closer to his vision, this fragment of Petey's memory – feeling her sadness as she smokes like a seasoned expert, even though she can't be more than fourteen. He watches her as she blows out some smoke and looks up – past the grimy, light-polluted confines of New York City and into the boundless sky beyond. And Quinlan knows exactly what young Petey is thinking just then, what she's dreaming of – a better life for herself – one where she won't be known as just a pitiful bastard child. Tears roll down her cheeks as she anxiously flicks the cigarette in her fingers – then she rips her eyes away from the sky and its infinite possibilities to stare down at her feet, tears dripping onto her shoes.

 _She looks just as she did on that rooftop,_ Quinlan thinks, as Petey takes a last drag on the cigarette and then crushes it with her foot. Then she heads down into the subway, disappearing into the dark – and the memory disappears with her, transporting Quinlan back to the present, onto the deserted street.

And as the haze and heady feeling of being inside Petey's memory fades, Quinlan realizes that this is something he's never done before – something that only The Master and the rest of the Ancients have the power to do – to connect with the mind of one he's fed on. And Quinlan just has to wonder if this new-found ability is really coming from him – or from _her._


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: This chapter contains sexually explicit content.

**_Chapter 11_ **

_Olympian Club_

A sleek, black and practically brand-new Lincoln Continental pulls up in front of the Club and an equally sleek-looking woman steps out of the driver's seat, leaning on the roof. She gives Quinlan a nod, and he back at her as he opens the back door for Setrakian. Then the driver gets back in and hands Quinlan two black hoods. He hands one to Setrakian, who just gives him an "are you kidding" look.

"Apologies, Professor…rules of the house," Quinlan says. "Their location must remain secret, even to us."

Setrakian sighs and slips on the hood, and Quinlan does the same. Then it's an utterly silent but quick ride to their destination – not that they know where that is. All either of them can tell is that things get suddenly darker as the car moves underground. Then a moment later, the car stops and the driver opens the door for them. Quinlan pulls off the hood and steps out, offering a polite arm to Setrakian, who uses it to steady himself as he gets out.

One of the Sun Hunters stands before them, bowing courteously. "I am Lar. I will speak for them," he says.

Quinlan and Setrakian nod back and then follow him into a long tunnel, where the dark seems to get even darker. Then the tunnel opens up into a large concrete chamber with only a few lights to provide the barest illumination – a stark, empty space except for the three Ancients – huge, monstrous-looking Strigoi of the Old World, resting death-like on slightly reclined pedestals. Quinlan follows Lar into the lit space at the center of the three, while Setrakian remains on the shadowy edge of the circle.

"So…you are aware of what happened?" Quinlan asks. The Ancients twitch a bit, and Lar nods.

"We are," he replies.

"Is The Master truly dead?"

"He is not."

Quinlan and Setrakian exchange looks – disappointed but not surprised. "I cut off his head," Quinlan replies. "But I saw something else…a red worm. It crawled out and disappeared. Is that why he is not dead?"

"It is."

"What is that worm?"

"The red worm is the essence. If it is not destroyed, then neither is he. You have only crippled him for the moment."

Quinlan laughs bitterly at that as he paces around the inner circle, looking at them all with new contempt. "I cannot do the job you brought me here to do if I do not have all the information I need. Did you not think this was something I should know about?" he asks.

For a moment, there's no reply – then Lar simply says, "Well…now you know."

Their mocking reply pushes Quinlan over the edge, and with a low growl he whips the sword off his back. Lar draws down on him as Quinlan points the end of the blade dangerously close to one of the Ancients' necks. The creature snarls back at him, but its eyes hold Quinlan's in a steady gaze, ready to throw down.

"Be careful, Quintus. Your standing with us is not what it once was…not even close. We have no qualms about taking _you_ out as well," Lar says, holding his gun to Quinlan's head as Quinlan keeps the blade drawn on the Ancient. Still standing on the periphery, Setrakian watches nervously, wondering if he should jump into the fray – but he suddenly realizes just how old the conflict is that's playing out in front of him. He realizes that even though he's spent nearly a hundred years fighting this battle, Quinlan and the Ancients' quarrel goes back _thousands._ He realizes that he's actually in privileged position, a human able to listen in on the conversations of beings far more powerful than he. Quinlan doesn't need his help, not even remotely – so Setrakian decides to stay quiet and hang back.

"I will _not_ be made a fool of, especially by the likes of you three. Now, is there anything _else_ you're not telling me?" Quinlan seethes – and after another tense moment, Lar puts his gun away, prompted by the Ancients.

"Destroy the red worm, and the traitor who calls himself The Master will be destroyed forever," they reply through him. Quinlan stares at the Ancient for another second and then withdraws, putting his sword away.

"Very well…I hope you will at least be so good as to tell us when The Master has taken a new host," he says, and Lar nods.

"He is in a transitory state. That is all we sense at the moment. If our Sun Hunters learn of a new host, we will advise you of it," Lar says – and then he turns his black-eyed gaze to Setrakian.

"Pawnbroker…where is the Lumen?"

Setrakian approaches at that, entering the circle and standing next to Quinlan. "The Lumen is safe. You needn't worry about that," he replies.

"We want the book. That was our deal."

"Yes…it seems that everybody wants the book. The Master came out of hiding in order to get it…which makes me wonder what is so important about it that it would be worth exposing himself for?" Setrakian asks, and the Ancients all squirm uncomfortably on their pedestals.

"I can see by your reaction that there _is_ something _very_ important contained in that book," he continues. "Does it have something to do with what the Egyptians discovered? Something about 'the house of red and white?'"

As soon as Setrakian says it, a low growling emanates from the Ancients, surrounding them. Lar steps closer to Setrakian. "If I were you, I would leave now. They are becoming most…impatient."

"Was it something I said?" Setrakian replies, with an amused grin – and the Ancients' growling levels up to snarling. Quinlan grabs Setrakian by the elbow and pulls him away.

"Come along, Professor. I think we've gotten everything we're going to get out of these malingerers," he says. Lar just cocks his head at him, watching as they walk out of the chamber, out of earshot – then he turns back to the Ancients.

"Do you think they will discover the meaning?" Lar asks them, and inside his head they reply.

"Let us hope not."

* * *

_En route to Brooklyn Hospital_

Petey checks her phone to see what time it is as she rides in an ambulance on the way to Brooklyn Hospital. Councilwoman Feraldo had managed to strong-arm the mayor into getting the hospital re-opened for her people. Unfortunately, there were only a few doctors and nurses available and willing to help who hadn't already been snatched up by Stoneheart's Freedom Centers.

Petey cranes her neck to look out the window, seeing the muted colors of sunset through the grayish sky. Then the woman on the gurney squirms in pain – a woman who just three months ago was a housekeeper at The Plaza Hotel. Then Feraldo's people swept her apartment building, took her and a dozen other residents to a makeshift barracks, where they were told by NYPD that they'd been conscripted. Then they shoved a fire axe in her hand and sent her into a tunnel with a few other people to clear it of Strigoi. Needless to say, the housekeeper was lucky to get out with just a couple of fractured ribs.

"You're doing great. Just hang in there and try to breathe as normal as you can," Petey says.

"Easy for you to say…it fucking… _hurts!_ " the woman grunts.

"I know, hon…I know…every time you feel the pain, just squeeze my hand, hard as you can. And breathe as deep as you can. I know I'm a total bitch for saying that but trust me, you don't want to be dealing with pneumonia on top of all this, okay?" Petey repeats, rubbing her hand to soothe her. The ambulance slows and stops then, and Petey opens the doors, jumping out. The woman shrieks again as Petey pulls the gurney out and it jostles her around.

" _OW!_ You fuckin' bitch!"

"Sorry…sorry…" Petey apologizes as she rolls the gurney into the ER entrance and hands her patient off to the waiting nurse. "Fractured ribs, left side."

"Okay, we got her. Can you help out with the minor injuries over there?" the nurse asks, pointing over to the area of exam tables with other patients from the same tunnel sweep.

"Yeah, sure," Petey replies. She goes over to the nearest sink, washes her hands and puts on fresh gloves. Then she enters the room, going over to the first person she sees – a stocky Latino man in his fifties at least, wearing a very eighties Members Only jacket. Next to him sits a much younger Latino guy, cute even though he looks like a gangbanger. Both of them give Petey a suspicious look up and down as she approaches.

"Hey," Petey says. "You guys hurt?"

"Nah, not me. Might wanna check Abuelo over here, though," the younger one says, and the older one just sticks up a fat middle finger at him. Petey grins at them, noticing the older man's bloody, cut-up knuckles and hand.

"Well, you should let me clean up that hand at least," she says, reaching for the nearest batch of supplies. "So how many Strigoi did you take out down there?" she then asks – and at her use of the Old World term, the guys exchange looks.

"She said 'Strigoi,'" the older one says to the younger one in Spanish, and the younger one nods.

"How you know that name?" the younger one asks her.

"What, 'Strigoi?' Oh, uh…my brother, he's working with Feraldo and some…other people. That's what they call them," Petey says, not wanting to give too much information away.

"Who's your brother?" the younger one asks, and Petey narrows her eyes at him as she finishes cleaning the older one's hand.

"Who are _you_?" she asks back – and he grins, extending a hand.

"Sorry, my manners. I'm Gus…and the old fucker's Angel," he says.

"Who you callin' 'old,' pendejo?" Angel spits back.

Petey shakes Gus' hand. "I'm Petey…and my brother's Vasiliy Fet."

"No shit! The rat man? Didn't know he had a sister. Where you been all this time?" Gus asks, and Petey has to chuckle at the number of times she's heard 'I didn't know he had a sister' since she got to New York.

"I came up from Philly a few days ago. So…you guys got roped into this civilian squad thing?"

"Yeah…got caught in the raid. Don't suppose there's any way Fet could get us outta this shit detail, is there? I mean, I ain't got no problem fightin', I'd just rather be takin' the fight to The Master instead of wasting time with these low-level Munchers," Gus says.

"So you know about The Master?"

"Uh…yeah…more than I want to, trust me," Gus says, looking down guiltily – knowing that he played a pretty big part in getting the vampire apocalypse rolling by unknowingly bringing The Master into Manhattan.

"Well, I dunno…you can ask him when he gets here, he's coming to pick me up," Petey replies.

"Sweet. Hey, how's the Professor doin'?"

"He's, uh…he's good. I guess. Hard to tell with him."

"Yeah, ain't exactly the warm-and-fuzzy type, is he?"

"No…more of the ass-kicking, Strigoi-slaying type, which amazes me given his age," Petey says, and then makes an apologetic face at Angel. "Sorry. Didn't mean to sound ageist or anything."

"Don't matter how old you are, chica. When your life's on the line – or somebody you care about – you'll find you're capable of all kinds of things," Angel replies – and though he directs the comment to Gus, Angel notices the change in Petey's expression, just for a second. But then she covers with a smile and a nod, as she finishes wrapping his hand with gauze.

"There. All done. You guys sit tight, I'll come get you when Fet gets here," she says – and then she walks away, hoping to god they don't see how unsettled she feels all of a sudden. She goes through the motions of tending to the remaining wounded, but on a sort-of auto-pilot where her hands continue to work on the task at hand even though her brain's preoccupied with reliving her nightmarish journey to New York. She sees every Strigoi she killed, including some who were only kids. And she feels the humiliation all over again of having to debase herself just to gain entrance to the city.

It makes her feel like she's covered in shit. So after she finishes with the last patient, Petey heads for the nurses' locker room.

"Are the showers working?" she asks, as she passes by the gossiping trio of nurses at the desk.

"Yeah, but the hot water'll only last for like, five minutes," one of them answers.

"Good enough," Petey replies, leaving them behind. She quickens her pace, making a beeline into the locker room. She looks around, but the place is empty – and for a second, she's not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing. But then her sudden, desperate need to be clean resurfaces and it's decided. She kicks off her shoes and peels off her scrubs, steps into the shower stall and turns on the water, gasping when it comes out cold. She pumps out a handful of soap and scrubs like crazy, like she'd been working a 48-straight in the ER instead of just doing some basic first aid. She massages the soap into her hair, sighing as the water warms up and her muscles relax. She lets the water run down through her hair, and as the steam builds up around her Petey breathes it in – getting drowsy, slipping further away in her mind.

* * *

And then she's back in the dark, groaning when she feels the cold stone and smells the stale, rotten air of the Colosseum's underbelly. She rubs her eyes and looks around, adjusting to the light – and then she hears the echo of clanking chains nearby. She knows better than to speak this time. She knows she can't be seen or heard in this memory that isn't hers. She's just there to witness – to learn what nobody else knows. And then she sees the torches stuck in the walls up ahead, providing some illumination on the subject _…Quinlan._

Petey sighs when she sees how this memory's starting – with guards dragging him to a pillar and chaining him to it so that he hangs by the manacles on his wrists, with his arms up over his head. His back is to her, so she walks around to see his face – but his head hangs down as if asleep or unconscious. She looks him over – he's been stripped bare, his wrists oozing white, the skin raw from rubbing against the iron manacles. He looks weak, lifeless – and Petey feels a terrible stab of sympathy, wanting to lift his head and comfort him.

She wishes that she had been there to do something – but she wasn't. Nobody was there for him then – or maybe ever.

She swallows hard as more guards enter the room – making way for a smaller man in a clean, white toga with purple adornments, obviously somebody important. He holds a sprig of rosemary under his nose to combat the dungeon's horrible stink.

"Wake him," the important man says. A guard steps forward with a bucket, dumping cold water over Quinlan's head – and Petey gasps as she gets hit with some of the water, shocked that she can feel it. Quinlan's eyes snap open and he tosses his head around wildly, disoriented. The important man steps forward then and grabs Quinlan roughly by the face, forcing him to look him in the eye.

"After all I have done, _this_ is how you repay me? Do you have any idea what would have happened _to me_ if the Vestal had died? Or worse, if she had turned into one of you?" the important man shouts, right in his face. Quinlan holds his gaze but says nothing – which annoys the important man. He shoves Quinlan's face away and walks around the pillar, right by Petey, who looks between the two of them, wondering what the hell he's talking about – what happened to bring them here.

"Consider yourself fortunate, Quintus. The Vestal herself came to me and made a plea on your behalf. She does not wish you to be punished too severely. She reminded me that executing you would mean the loss of a valuable investment. So it seems you will be spared a very painful, very public death thanks to her. But _I_ …" the important man emphasizes his words by giving Quinlan a fairly impressive punch to the ribs, made more painful with all the heavy rings the important man wears. Petey hears Quinlan draw his breath in as he takes the hit, and she does the same.

"… _I_ am your sponsor!" the man says, grabbing Quinlan's face again to lock eyes. " _I_ am a senator of Rome! And without me, _you are nothing._ You _will_ understand this, and you _will_ obey…or you will die. And not in some quick, quiet, peaceful way…oh, no. If you _ever_ disgrace me again, I promise you, you will _beg_ for death. But I will not grant it. I will make sure your suffering lasts for _years_."

The Senator steps back then, his face red with fury and his chest heaving with rage. "I would say keep lashing until he has no more flesh to tear," he says to the lead guard. "But I cannot have my champion ruined. He must be ready to return to the arena two days hence. So we shall keep it to fifty lashes…but use the barbs."

"Yes, Senator," the guard says. Then the Senator turns on his sandaled heels and breezes out with his personal entourage of guards, leaving three behind to do the dirty work. The lead guard nods to one of the underlings, who takes one of the coils of different leather whips off a hook on the wall – and Petey sees the tail of the whip, split into several thinner ends with pieces of sharp metal sewn into them.

She covers her mouth, backing up as the underling guard readies the whip.

"Wake up, Petey…wake up…" she says softly to herself at first. Then she hears the first _whoosh-_ _ **crack!**_ and hears Quinlan grunting with the impact.

_Whoosh-_ _**crack** _ _! Whoosh-_ _**crack!** _ _Whoosh-_ _**crack!** _ _Whoosh-_ _**crack…!** _

"Goddammit, _wake up!_ **_Wake up!_** " Petey shouts at the top of her lungs. The sight of Quinlan's back shredding and oozing white blood horrifies her and she cries hysterically, continuing to scream at herself to wake – but she's drowned out by the terrible sound of the whip and Quinlan's agonizing wails – sounds she never imagined such an invincible creature could make.

* * *

Petey gasps as the warm water cuts off suddenly and shocks her with the cold, causing her to slip and fall on her butt. She crawls out of the stall, naked, soaked and shivering on the floor, fighting to get her breath back – but she can't stop the flood of empathetic emotion, pain and horror. She slaps her hands over her mouth to stifle her sobs, but she can't stop them. She has to weep for Quinlan – because nobody else ever would.

And as Petey lies there on the floor, she becomes aware of someone else in the room with her. Strong hands pick her up off the floor and throw a towel around her. And slowly, the voice works its way through the wall of overwhelming emotion.

"Pete! Hey! Wake up!" Fet shouts at her, shaking her, trying to get her to look at him and focus.

"Make it stop! Make it stop!" she repeats, clawing at Fet as if he were a tree she could climb to get away from the vision. All Fet can do is hold her and worry, feeling her trembling all over and not just from being cold and wet. Something's scaring the shit out of her, something only she can see _…and that can't be good._

"I gotcha…come on, let's getcha dressed, get back to the Club. You need rest, kiddo."

* * *

_Richards Street – Red Hook, Brooklyn_

Eph and Zach sit bundled up on the roof of Fet's place, getting away from the fumes of the toxin they'd been making all day. They have the skylight propped open, trying to air the place out as much as possible.

"Make sure you drink all that water. Can't have you getting dehydrated," Eph says. Zach dutifully gulps down another mouthful from the plastic jug they're sharing, then he hands it right back to him.

"Actually, you need the water more than I do," he replies – and Eph feels the sharp sting of the remark, worse than if he'd stirred a hornet's nest. And he realizes that Zach must have seen some empties laying around that he forgot to stash. _Nothing like being shamed by your own kid._ Eph looks at his son, guilt all over his face, and Zach just sighs – in a total role reversal where he's the weary dad and Eph is the wayward child.

"I'm sorry, Zach," is all Eph can manage to say – and it's not just for the drinking. It's for everything.

"I know," Zach says. "I'm sorry, too."

"For what?"

"Back on the pier, when I said I hated you and Mom."

Eph grins, feeling a swell of pride at his boy being so mature, despite the example he and Kelly had set for him of late. Eph reaches over and grabs him around the shoulders, hugging him. "You have nothing to be sorry about, believe me," he replies.

"Yeah, I do. It's my fault Nora died," Zach says, and Eph pulls back to look him in the eyes.

"No, it's not."

"Yeah, it is. I didn't stop Mom from biting her, and I left her there," Zach says, his voice catching as he holds back his tears.

"Hey…listen to me. Nora wouldn't blame you for any of it, so don't you go blaming yourself. There was nothing you could've done."

"I could've run like she told me to. But I just…I couldn't."

"If there's anyone to blame it's The Master," Eph replies. "This is what he does…turns people against their own loved ones. That's how he's getting everything to fall apart so fast."

"I met him, you know…The Master. He actually helped me. I was having an attack and he stopped it," Zach says, and Eph's face goes pale.

"Wait—wait _– what?_ What happened?"

"I started having an attack, 'cause I got scared and…then I saw Mom, and The Master was with her. She told me he would help me, and he did. He gave me a few drops of his blood."

"Sssshhhit…" Eph breathes, grabbing Zach. "Why didn't you tell me before? We gotta check you—"

"I'm fine!" Zach says, pulling out of his grip. "I'm better than fine. I'm breathing better now than I ever did before. And I don't have the worms."

"I don't understand…how could he give you his blood without transferring the virus?"

Zach shrugs. "I dunno, but Mom said the asthma's gone forever now. He cured me. And he told me it's what he wants to do for everybody. He wants to stop all the wars and starvation and all the bad stuff people do. He said once his plan is done the world will be better."

Eph just stares at Zach – then he laughs in disbelief. "Do you believe that?"

"I'd like to. He really wasn't the scary monster I thought he'd be," Zach replies, unsure.

"Is that all he said?"

"No. He said he wants you to join him. All of us…Fet and the Professor too. He wants us to work with him."

Eph nods slowly then, getting the message loud and clear. "Yeah, well…I met The Master once too. In full scary monster mode. And the one thing I learned for sure is that he doesn't have partners or colleagues or friends. The only way to 'join' The Master is either as a food source or a slave."

Zach swallows hard at that. "But then why would he tell me all that stuff?"

"I think he's just laying out bait that he thinks we'll be stupid enough or desperate enough to take."

"So he doesn't really wanna stop war and all that?"

"Well, technically, if the half the world's population is wiped out and the other half is enslaved…then yeah, wars would stop. But it's just a trick, Z…just like everything he says. And like everything your mother says now."

"We gotta stop him then, Dad. It's the only way to get Mom back," Zach says, and Eph just closes his eyes, shaking his head – then he turns Zach's chin, looking him direct in the eyes.

"There is no getting Mom back now. Whatever you saw, whatever she may have told you _…it wasn't her._ Mom died when she turned…and what she is now is just a puppet for The Master to use. Even _if_ we managed to get her away from him and we could somehow stop him from controlling her…then all she would do is revert to full Strigoi. The only way to _truly_ help her…is to kill her."

Zach backs away from Eph at that. "So you hate her now, is that it?"

"No, of course not! Believe it or not, I still love your mom. But what she is now…is not her. Your mother is _dead._ And I know how terrible that is to say, but it's the truth, and it's a truth you need to accept, Zach, or else The Master will just keep using it against you. He'll keep luring you in with lies until eventually you'll submit, or you'll die. And I can't let you die. I need you. I can't keep going without you," Eph says, his voice trembling – and Zach sees the tears in his eyes.

"Don't you miss her?" Zach asks, in a whisper.

"All the time. I just wish I'd been a better person…she deserved better. So do you."

Father and son look into each other for a moment – then Zach hugs Eph tight, burying his face in his dad's chest, sobbing hard. Eph lets himself break down too, and they stay like that for a while – finally taking the time to grieve the loss of their family, as the first snowfall of winter begins around them.

* * *

_Olympian Club_

After returning from the Ancients' lair and another day of studying the Lumen with little progress, Quinlan decided to go on the hunt to clear his head. By the time he returns, the Club is dim and quiet – only a few lights left on here and there suggest that anyone's still up and about. Then he hears noise coming from the kitchen and he moves toward it – wary, picking up an unfamiliar scent. He quietly draws his sword and uses it to push open the door. He makes a surprised face when he sees two Mexican guys sitting at the table, helping themselves to the pantry contents.

Mouth full of a SPAM sandwich, Gus makes an equally surprised face at seeing Quinlan standing there. "Holy shit," he mumbles – and across the table, Angel spits out his soup and leaps out of his chair. Then he slips his bandaged hand into his weapon of choice – a silver set of knuckles shaped like a cross, a souvenir from his acting days in Mexican monster movies decades ago.

 _"_ _Chinga!"_ he breathes, eyes wide and hauled back with the knuckles, ready to throw down. Quinlan just gives him a curious look as he steps into the room and Gus gets up to greet him – and Angel's mouth drops open in shock when he sees Gus extending a friendly hand to him.

"Didn't think I'd ever see you again," Gus says, and Quinlan nods at him, shaking his hand.

"Mister Elizalde…I'm glad to see you're alive and well."

Gus grins at him and chucks Quinlan on the shoulder like an old buddy, which practically makes Angel's head explode. "Gus…what the _fuck_ is goin' on?"

"Relax, man, it's just Quinlan," Gus says, and Angel just gives him an "are you kidding me" look back.

"Ohhh, okay. It's just Quinlan. _What the fuck is a Quinlan?_ 'Cause he looks like a fuckin' Strigoi! Is this one of those weirdos in the hoods you were hangin' out with before or what?"

"If by 'weirdos in the hoods' you're referring to the Sun Hunters, then no. I'm not one of them. Not anymore, anyway. So you can put your…weapon…away. If you are a friend of Gus' then you have nothing to fear from me," Quinlan replies, but Angel just stares between him and Gus, unconvinced.

"Angel…seriously, man, it's cool," Gus says. "Quinlan's the OG, right playa?"

"I have no idea what that means," Quinlan replies, which just makes Gus crack up.

"So what're you doin' here, man?" he asks. "Thought you were all about the lone wolf thing."

"The Professor and I are working on translating the Lumen. How did _you_ find your way here?" Quinlan replies – keeping an eye on Angel, who gradually relaxes and puts his knuckles away.

"Well, Angel and I were tryin' to get the hell outta the city, but we got hauled in by Feraldo's goon squad. Ended up at Brooklyn Hospital after this bonehead raid they made us do, but we got lucky and met Fet's little sister. They brought us back here, and boom. Back in the fight. Heard y'all got rid of Bolivar."

"Yes…unfortunately that did not eliminate The Master."

"Yeah, well. We'll get there. We fucked 'em up once, we can do it again," Gus says, and Quinlan has to grin at his youthful bravado.

"Where is the Professor?"

"Still in the study, I think…obsessing over that book."

"Then I should join him. Good to see you, Gus," Quinlan says, and then ducks out – and Angel just throws his hands up in bewilderment.

"What the fuck was that? How in the hell can you be a human being and talk to that _thing_ like it's a buddy?" he asks.

"I know. It's weird. It's fucked up. It is. But believe it or not, not all of 'em are bad. Quinlan…and Vaun, when he was still here…they want to stop all this as much as we do."

"Ah, bullshit," Angel says. "I don't buy that. If they want The Master dead, it's only so they can put _themselves_ in the power position. They don't give a shit about us, hermano…we're just cattle to them, I'm telling you."

Gus sighs in frustration, knowing he can't convince his good friend of something so understandably outrageous. "Look, all I can tell you is you don't know these guys like I do. You didn't know Vaun, and you don't know Quinlan. And you don't have to trust them. But I'm asking you to trust _me._ We're safe here. This is the best possible place we could be."

"Fuck that. Best possible place _we_ could be is fucking Fiji," Angel quips, and Gus has to chuckle at that.

"Oh, well, now look what you did. All that fuckin' blabbing, your soup's gone cold. Gimme that," he replies. Angel sighs out all his new stress and frustration and sits back down, waiting patiently as Gus grabs the bowl and dumps the soup back in the pot to reheat it.

* * *

Quinlan heads for the study but stops before he can get there – torn between doing what he knows he _should_ be doing and what he would _rather_ be doing. It only takes a few seconds for him to decide to look for Petey instead – and on a hunch, he tries the roof. He takes a stroll around and smells the air – but she's nowhere to be found. He's about to return to the main floor when he gets a sudden feeling, something he's never experienced before – as if something invisible and more powerful than him just rushed up on him and punched him in the gut. He doubles over and puts a hand out on the nearest wall to steady himself as his vision blurs, darkens and then changes. The city disappears around him, replaced by a memory plucked from the depths of his subconscious – except he's not the one doing the remembering.

Not exactly.

* * *

When Petey awakens this time, the weight of the Colosseum's stink isn't as heavy. In fact, much of it is masked by the smell of fire and smoke. She sits up in the shadows and sees a figure lying on a stone bench just beyond the fire – and the twinge in her chest lets her know it's Quinlan.

_Of course…who else would it be?_

His bandaged back to her, she hears him groaning a bit and squirming with discomfort – and she sighs, remembering exactly why. Petey stands up and moves closer, around the fire to see him more clearly – and the new wounds adorning his arms and legs. Somehow, she just knows they're from the arena.

Then they both hear rattling keys approaching, and the same centurion who brought the Vestal Virgin to Quinlan before appears at the door of his cell. Then he opens it and steps in, giving Quinlan a prodding whack with his staff.

"On your feet, Barbarian," he growls, and Quinlan stands up with difficulty. The centurion tosses a hooded cloak at him, with not a whit of sympathy in his expression. Petey follows them as they leave the Ludus Magnus and walk toward The Forum, where they enter a passageway with several switchbacks that gradually slope upward. When they emerge from the tunnel, they're at the top of Palantine Hill, where most of the nobles built their homes. The centurion then leads Quinlan to a building with no distinctive markings and stops at the steps.

"Go inside," the centurion orders, and then turns to stand watch.

Petey follows Quinlan into the building, who lowers the hood on the cloak to look around. And Petey looks too, admiring the beauty of it – a noble's home, to be sure, but not overly lavish. Torches on the walls bounce light all over, giving everything a cozy glow – one that would usually make a person feel at home. But as Petey looks at Quinlan, she can tell he feels anything but.

And that's when a woman's voice calls, "Quintus."

They both look up to see a female figure in white at the top of the staircase. The moonlight shining in through the window behind her lights her up so she looks like a goddess. And Petey makes the connection, remembering hearing something about a Vestal _…a Vestal Virgin._

Quinlan bows to her and the Vestal smiles, reaching out her hand. "Come," she says – but he hesitates.

"Forgive me, my lady, but I do not wish any further trouble with my Patron," he replies. Antonia descends the stairs – more like floats, Petey notices, with her white silk gown waving all around her.

"I appealed to the Senator personally. He promised me your punishment would be minor," she says.

"Indeed it was…a flogging is not nearly as severe as crucifixion. But it is still something I would rather avoid going through again. He also warned me that if anything else were to happen, I would not escape execution a second time."

Petey walks around them as Antonia takes in the words – and then smiles again, a condescending smirk implying her superiority. Then she reaches up and unties the lace on his cloak, letting it drop off his shoulders. And in the torchlight, Quinlan sees the mark he'd left on her throat, still red and a bit raw.

"Did you not enjoy our time together?" Antonia asks, moving in even closer – and despite himself, Quinlan starts getting a bit tipsy on her scent all over again.

"Yes," he answers, unable to hide it.

"Then fear not, my pet…we shall not be discovered this time, I assure you."

Antonia takes his hand and leads him up the stairs and Petey follows them, picking up the scent of flowers and herbs as they get to the second floor and Antonia brings Quinlan into a chamber with a large stone tub in the middle of the room. A handmaid sits by the tub, pouring more hot water in from a pitcher, creating clouds of steam. She stands up and bows her head as they enter.

"My lady…all is prepared," she says.

Antonia leaves Quinlan to circle the tub, dipping a hand in to test the water's temperature. She takes a handful of lavender petals from a bowl on the side of the tub and sprinkles them over the water. Then she looks to Quinlan, gesturing for him to approach.

"What is this?" he asks.

"I heard what Sertorius did to you, of course…and I feel terribly guilty. I wanted to do something for you. This bath will heal your wounds," she replies, innocently enough – but Quinlan just stares back at her, wary. And from her vantage point off to the side, so does Petey.

"I thank you, my lady…but my wounds will heal on their own," Quinlan says.

"Quintus, please," Antonia says. "There is nothing to be afraid of here. We only wish to please you."

 _"_ _We?"_ he repeats, and his eyes dart over to the handmaid, catching her staring back at him – then she casts her eyes downward.

"Come…I promise you, you will find the experience to be most relaxing…and pleasurable," Antonia says.

Petey watches Quinlan thinking it over, considering his options – and she can even hear, in a way, what he's thinking. He knows he could refuse her and leave, and there would be no way for her to stop him, even if she set the centurion on him. But Vestals held higher status than nobles, and there would be no escaping the consequences unless he fled Rome altogether – which was something he was not prepared to do. Or he could acquiesce and participate in whatever sordid activity she had in mind – and risk Senator Sertorius' wrath instead.

Either way, he was fucked. It was just a question of how he would get it and how badly. And as the seconds pass, Petey can feel Quinlan growing more annoyed as Antonia flits around him, baiting him – like food dangled in front of a starving dog by a cruel mistress who just wants to watch the dog squirm and suffer, deriving sick pleasure from the control.

Quinlan understands that Antonia's challenging him – attacking, even, in her own way. She found his weak spot that first time, poked it and got a reaction – and now she would never stop provoking him. Each challenge would become baser and baser. And as angry as that makes him – it also arouses him in a way he had never experienced before. Which only makes him angrier. And then more aroused. It's a vicious circle of dreaded and thrilling emotions. So he steps forward finally, walking slowly toward Antonia and her handmaid. He steps into the tub – but then stops when he hears both women snickering.

"Dear Quintus," Antonia says, "You must remove your tunic first. The healing water cannot do any good otherwise."

Quinlan looks between the two women and then strips off the tunic, eliciting gasps from both of them – and from Petey. Not only at his sublime physique but also – and especially – at his organ-less groin.

Then Antonia stands up and walks around behind him. "I had no idea," she breathes, as she traces her fingers over the length of Quinlan's arm up to his shoulder and puts her mouth by his ear. "There, now…sit down and let us take care of you," she says as she signals to her handmaid, who picks up another bowl holding some cut leaves from the spiky aloe plant.

With a deep breath, Quinlan lowers himself into the water, wincing a bit at the unfamiliar feel of water and the sting it causes as it makes contact with the still-raw flogging wounds on his back. Antonia lifts up her gown as she sits down on the edge of the tub behind him and sticks her legs in the water with Quinlan between them. She takes an aloe leaf and squeezes the fluid inside into her hand. Then she rubs her hands together and places them gently on the wounds to coat them with the plant's essence.

Petey stays in the shadows, even though she knows she can't be seen. She watches the scenario unfolding before her and has a feeling where it's going. And she isn't sure if she wants to see anymore – but the baser, voyeuristic side of her keeps her rooted to the spot. The steam swirling around her, the smell of the herbs and flowers, works like hypnotism on her, dulling reason and leaving her open to just – feeling.

"This plant has remarkable healing properties," Antonia whispers in Quinlan's ear, and he closes his eyes as her breath tickles his earlobe.

"Take your ease, Quintus…breathe," Antonia says as she rubs his shoulders and smooths more aloe into his back. Quinlan closes his eyes and breathes in deep, letting the heat and the sweet smells fill his head – and as Antonia keeps whispering to him, Quinlan starts to feel woozy, like he's going into a trance.

"Do you feel better now?" Antonia asks.

"Yes," he replies – and she smiles, gesturing to her handmaid to approach. The young woman slips out of her frock and steps into the tub, reaching for Antonia's outstretched hand. Quinlan opens his eyes just in time to see Antonia pull the handmaiden into a deep kiss. He watches them, mesmerized, and then Antonia lets go of the handmaid to turn Quinlan's face to hers. She kisses his closed mouth, running her soft, warm tongue over his lips. The feel of it makes him sigh, falling deeper under her influence.

"My handmaid will feed you, but you must do something for me," she said. Quinlan looks between the two women – and sees that Antonia using the same devious smile on her handmaid that she used on him.

"Use that incredible tongue of yours…and make her a woman."

Quinlan turns, giving her a harsh look. "Why would you suggest such a thing? You are truly a frightening creature," he said – and she just laughs.

"Not so, Quintus. It is what _she_ wants as well. Is it not?" she asks the handmaid, who smiles back at her as she approaches. She straddles Quinlan's lap and takes his hand, moving it under the water – and Quinlan sucks his breath in as she places his hand between her legs, feeling how different wet skin felt. His throat rattles with lust – not just for her blood, but for her and the high that would come with it.

"Why do you want this?" he asks the handmaid, breathy. "Do you even know what it is you are asking?"

The handmaid smiles gently at him and places a kiss on his mouth, soft and sweet. "You are Invictus…you are immortal. You are a god. Who better to give my innocence to?" she replies. Antonia kisses Quinlan's neck then, her arms snaking around him.

"You see? I speak the truth. Let yourself go, Quintus…let go and take her," she says.

The handmaid kisses Quinlan again, harder this time – and he responds, learning how to kiss her back as he was being shown so well. He nuzzles the handmaid's earlobe and neck as Antonia then kisses her, all open-mouthed and wet. The handmaid then pushes back from them, dropping off Quinlan's lap to immerse herself in the water – disappearing under the surface and then standing up.

Quinlan takes in the sight of her – her hair slicked back, her skin glistening from the torchlight and the water running down the length of her. He stands up and walks toward her, and she backs up to sit on the edge of the tub. He gently pushes her down and she parts her legs for him, so he could lay himself down on top of her. She writhes underneath him and sighs out her pleasure as he runs his hands up and down the wet length of her. She cups his face in her hands and kisses him deeply – with passion instead of selfishness, the way Antonia's kisses felt.

Not to be left out, Antonia walks around to get behind the handmaid, bending over her to kiss her on the lips and massage her breasts. Antonia looks up at Quinlan then, and suddenly he remembers something he'd said to Senator Sertorius – that he was a student of human nature. And oh, how much he was learning now. Not just about carnal pleasures, but about the complexity – and simplicity – of intimacy. He was learning that what aroused him – and what scared him most – is all right there. He was also learning that women could be every bit as dangerous as men. In her own way, Antonia was every bit as terrifying as The Master.

As Quinlan let the women love him, he imagines – or hopes – that they aren't all as devious and manipulative as Antonia. In fact, he knew it to be true – the woman who adopted him, Ancharia, was the very picture of compassion and selflessness. But she never triggered in him the extremes of emotion that he's feeling now. Antonia moves in to kiss him then, taking his bottom lip between her teeth and sucking on it before letting it go. And then he grabs her by the back of the head, forcing her to look him in the eyes, bright with arousal and anger.

"What do you want from me, Vestal? You think you can control me as Sertorius believes he does?" he asks in a harsh whisper.

"Of course," she replies, keeping her mouth on his. "But I am willing to give you pleasure in return."

"If I do what you ask, will you let me be?"

"If you wish…but I know that is not what you want. You want to know how to love. You want to _be_ loved. I can show you. Just do what I ask _…all_ that I ask…and I will give you that which you truly desire," Antonia replies, wetting his lips with her tongue. Then she gasps with surprise as Quinlan lets his stinger out and it touches her face. But instead of recoiling, Antonia welcomes it, letting Quinlan caress her with it – then he withdraws it.

"Is that what you want?" he asks.

"I do not fear it. Use it as you will," she replies.

And still frozen in her spot, Petey gasps too, shocked, scared and excited all at the same time, watching Quinlan use the stinger like a third hand, letting it move down Antonia's neck to her breasts, making her sigh.

"You cannot take me…but you can take her," she whispers. And Quinlan looks down at the waiting handmaid then, who reaches for him as Petey forces herself to walk forward. She gets closer, watching Antonia hike up her gown and start pleasuring herself as Quinlan lets the stinger roam over the handmaid's body.

The handmaid moans and undulates like water underneath it, dancing with it – sending a hot, lustful rush through Quinlan. He retracts the stinger to attack her with open-mouthed kisses, sucking on her lips, her neck, her breasts. He kisses her belly, licking her with his human tongue, tasting softness and salt as her delicate hands caress his head, his neck, his shoulders. Then she lets her knees drop out to the side, opening herself up for him – and Quinlan sighs as he rubs his cheek against the skin on the inside of her thighs, skin softer than anywhere else on her body. Quinlan looks up at Antonia then, watching her pleasure herself – and she stares right back at him, silently challenging him with her superior smile.

Petey emerges from the shadows as Quinlan turns his full attention back to the handmaid, diving into her sex with his human tongue first, wanting to taste her before letting his bloodlust take over. The handmaid moans loudly, grinding her pelvis against him, setting the rhythm and lulling them into a savage dance of abandon. Quinlan takes in all the different tastes of her – pungent, bitter, salty and sweet all at the same time. Her body reacts to his every move – grinding harder against him, her breathing picking up and her blood flowing faster, all moving toward him.

The handmaid cries out louder then, holding his head in the spot giving her the most pleasure – and she hits her climax at almost the same time as Antonia, both women crying out their pleasure, their bodies spasming uncontrollably. And Petey finds herself reacting too, breathing heavier and shifting around, feeling the tingle between her own legs, while Antonia drops her head back with a half-crazed laugh. Then she moves over to the handmaid to kiss her.

But Quinlan stays absorbed in what he's learning and experiencing. As the handmaid's body relaxes, the inside of her sex covers in a slick, tasteless fluid – making it slippery and, he realizes, easier to penetrate. He withdraws from her then, but only to kiss the insides of her thighs, something he realizes he enjoyed more than anything – the feeling of that softest of skin against his own.

Petey can't help but let out an audible breath, feeling like her head might explode with the overload of emotion and vicarious sensation. And somehow, the sound travels through the humid air to Quinlan's ear. He looks up and sees something vague in the fog of steam – a figure – someone watching them. He's about to move to intercept it, but then something else, a voice from inside his own head, tells him not to – tells him that he can't. He stares hard into the fog at the figure that is Petey, watching him from more than a thousand years in the future – and she holds her breath when she sees his whitish eyes looking at her.

"Take her, Quintus…do it," Antonia commands, drawing his attention away. He clamps his hands down on the handmaid's legs to keep her still and unfurls the stinger, letting it push its way into her. The handmaid gasps in shock, stiffening up – but Quinlan holds her in place, pushing farther in. But then he meets resistance from inside her – a barrier or membrane of some kind. Quinlan hesitates then, realizing that breaking through it would most likely be painful for her. And as much as he doesn't want to do that, he's equally curious – and weary of being used. Not just by Antonia, but by Sertorius and the fiends that kept him caged up in a freak show, in chains a with an iron collar over his face.

The handmaid had given her consent – so if he was going to continue it wasn't going to be because anyone else was forcing him to. It would be because _he_ wanted to. And he does want to, more than anything else he ever wanted. So Quinlan grips the handmaid's thighs tight and pushes the stinger in with enough force to break through the membrane. And as the handmaid lets out a sharp cry of pain, Quinlan tastes her blood.

Petey slaps a hand over her mouth, both in shock and disgust – mostly with herself, because she's as aroused by what she's seeing as she is horrified by it. "I wanna go…let me go now…please…" she whispers to whatever is controlling these visions. But she remains, watching Quinlan and the handmaid in their grotesque, mesmerizing dance.

Quinlan shuts his eyes in rapture, feeling the handmaid's pelvic muscles tightening around the stinger. He feels her leg muscles trembling, her whole body trembling uncontrollably in shock as he moves inside her. Then he withdraws from her and stands up, glaring at Antonia with the handmaid's blood all over his mouth. He licks his lips and gathers the handmaid up in his arms, setting her down in the warm water.

"You need these healing waters more than I," he says, and she grabs his hand.

"Invictus," she says. Holding his face in her delicate hands, she kisses him, blood and all – and Quinlan relishes it, how soft and tender she is. He caresses her face and touches their foreheads together.

"Thank you, my lady," he whispers, kissing her one last time. Then he steps out of the tub and picks up his tunic off the floor, dressing as Antonia sidles up to him.

"Well done, Quintus," she says, draping herself over him – but he steps back from her.

"I take my leave now," he replies, and Antonia looks at him, surprised.

"I did not say you could go," she says.

"I do not require your permission."

Antonia's lovely eyes flash with indignation. "Are you defying me?" she says, her voice rising. But then Quinlan grabs her by the throat and lifts her right off the ground, slamming her back into the nearest wall.

Petey's stomach drops at seeing it, dreading what might come next, as Quinlan puts his face right up to Antonia's, which has taken on a much different expression – that of terror instead of superiority.

"Choose your next words with great care, Vestal," Quinlan says, seething. "For if they are not the words I wish to hear they _will_ be your last, consequences be damned. Now…will I ever see your face again?"

He loosens his grip just enough, so she can answer. "No," Antonia replies.

"Will you leave me be?"

"Yes…I will," she replies as fearful tears stream down her flushed cheeks. Quinlan stares into her, feeling her racing pulse – and tempted, oh, so tempted to kill her.

"If you do not keep your word…if you have me punished for _your_ depravity, make no mistake, I _will_ kill you," he warns – and Antonia lets out a terrified breath. Then he lets go of her and she falls to the floor, clutching her throat and coughing. Quinlan lingers on her for a moment and then starts walking out – but she calls to him.

"Quintus…" she says, but not in her usual way – more like a plead, as she reaches out to him and he just stares at her in disgust.

"You are not worthy to be so familiar with me, Vestal. To you…I am Invictus."

Petey follows Quinlan as he walks out and back down the stairs, picking the cloak up off the floor and putting it back on. He walks out into the night air, breathing in deeply – finding it freeing, a relief from the hot, closed-off bath chamber. Petey breathes in deeply too, taking in the majestic sight of the great city at night.

"Take me back to my cell," Quinlan says to the waiting centurion, and Petey walks with them as they head back toward the Colosseum the same way they came. Quinlan keeps his distance behind the centurion, his eyes on him as they re-enter the passageway at The Forum.

Once inside and far enough down that they're out of everyone's earshot, Quinlan attacks the centurion from behind. Petey gasps and jumps back, plastering herself against the wall as Quinlan launches his stinger into the centurion's neck and drains him dry – then he lets go, throwing his head back with the rush, blood dripping from the sides of his mouth, letting out a purely Strigoi roar – loud enough that Petey slaps her hands over her ears. And her eyes widen in horror as she watches Quinlan beat the centurion's body to a pulp – partly, she knows, for his own protection. The centurion would be all but unrecognizable and there would be no way to determine who killed him. But Petey also knows that he's doing it to vent his rage against Antonia, doing to him what he would have done to her.

Petey hangs back as Quinlan walks off, watching him fade into the distance. And she sits there with the bloody heap of centurion next to her and does what has become an unpleasant ritual – drawing her knees in and burying her head in her arms, crying until whatever's controlling her visions decides to let her wake up.

* * *

Petey sits up, going through the next part of the new-and-unpleasant ritual – trying to remember where she is – and _when_ she is, re-orienting herself to the here and now _…2014…the Olympian Club…New York…the vampire apocalypse. Fuck._

And even though it's winter outside, Petey's face and torso are covered in sweat, like she's run a marathon in the middle of summer – or more appropriately to this night, just been through a long, uncomfortable screw in the back of a sweltering car, one where she didn't even get to come. She throws the covers off and heads for the bathroom to go through the last part of the new-and-unpleasant ritual – splashing her face with freezing cold water. She looks at herself in the mirror and shakes her head, burying her face in her hands as she leans on the sink – wondering how many more of these vision-slash-memories she can handle.

She walks out of the bathroom and stares at the bed – and as much as she loves sleep, it's the last thing she wants to do now. So she grabs her parka and digs her e-cigarette out of her bag, walking out and heading for the roof.

* * *

And up on the roof, Quinlan leans against the wall by the door, feeling his head finally clearing of the fog of memory – but all he remembers now is that Petey was there, inside his head, watching him fuck two women in Rome over a thousand years ago.

She saw him – and he saw her.

Or did he really? _Was_ she actually there at the time it happened? _No, of course not…that's impossible._ Of course, so was being able to see Petey as a child. It had to have been part of this new, cerebral connection between them. Now their memories were starting to tangle and mix and blur together – displacing time itself and it was powerful stuff.

It takes him another moment to get his bearings, then Quinlan goes back inside – and as soon as the door shuts, Petey looks up, hearing it from her spot on the stairs. Her chest flutters with the scare – and then keeps fluttering – because she knows who it is.

And as he descends from the roof, Quinlan's chest flutters too – because he can smell her now, stirring the air with her intoxicating scent, and she's close. Excitement races through him, mixed with growing dread at what she might be about to say or do.

And as she ascends from below, Petey feels the same excitement, the same dread – until finally, they see each other as she comes up to and he comes down to the same landing. They stare at each other for what seems like forever, both of them afraid to break the silence. Quinlan stares into her eyes – eyes that sometimes appeared green, and sometimes, like now, appeared brown. And he realizes that he's never been more afraid in his long, long life than he is at this very moment. He's fought wars in close combat, slayed thousands upon thousands of men and monsters. But nothing has ever frightened him as much as the thought of being rejected – and resented – by this woman.

And as Petey stares back at him, into his eyes that sometimes barely appeared at all they were so white, and sometimes, like now, a pale, icy blue – she feels fear of a different kind. She fears she may never be able to free herself of _his_ memories. She fears she may never be able to break this crazy, mental connection that she never meant to make in the first place – a connection that she's not sure she wants to keep.

But what Petey fears most is what she feels the deepest of all – empathy. As she looks at Quinlan, she doesn't see the Strigoi anymore. She sees the human being, the man hopelessly interconnected with the monster, struggling to make sense of opposite ways of being. Struggling to survive in a world that needs him but hates and rejects him. Struggling to live among people he must feed on and yet longs to connect with. Quinlan is a being of contradictions and impossibilities – and as she looks at him, Petey also realizes that whether she wants to be or not, she is probably the only person in the world who understands him – the only person who can truly say she knows what he's going through.

Petey stows her e-cigarette in her pocket and takes a step forward – encouraging Quinlan to take a step toward her. He decides to go for it before he completely loses his nerve, and gently takes her hand. He rubs his cheek against the thin, silky skin on the top of her hand – and it works like heat to ice, melting him down. He presses his dry lips to her skin and Petey draws in a breath, as he traces along her hand to her knuckles and fingers. And they each know what the other is thinking now – because it's the same thing and it's nothing deep, nothing transcendent or magical. They saw each other in that bath chamber in ancient Rome, surrounded by heat and steam and sweat and sex. A memory of intimacy and carnal desire that they both want to experience again – with each other.

Petey pulls her hand away but only to touch his face and bring it closer to hers. As she does, he grabs her around the waist, putting them nose-to-nose. Close enough that they can feel each other's breath tickling their faces. Close enough that they can both feel the pull between them, growing stronger and more insistent to get even closer. A pull that leads from noses and foreheads touching to lips hovering just millimeters apart.

Then the distance closes and their lips touch. Quinlan feels his first kiss in in two hundred years – and it feels amazing. Petey doesn't kiss him like Louisa used to – she's not dainty or sweet about it. She's formidable and passionate _…she's…_

_…_ _hungry. Just like me._

Everything happens in a whirlwind after that thought goes through his mind, because after that, he stops thinking – and so does Petey. Their kiss deepens, getting warmer and wetter as their tongues start dancing and their hands start roaming over each other. Quinlan pushes Petey's coat off her shoulders, and as soon as it hits the floor he lays her down on it. They don't even bother to undress any further – they don't need to. They know exactly what they need to do to get to where they want to be. Quinlan slides a hand between Petey's scrub pants and her bare behind. And Petey helps him along, lifting herself up so he can push the pants down enough to gain access. Then she grabs his hand and slides his fingers into her mouth. And Quinlan can't help but let out a hard breath when he feels that warm wetness, her tongue rolling over his skin. His chest tightens up at it, at how much he missed feeling it – and how grateful he is to feel it again. He dives into the spot between her neck and shoulder, kissing her there and sucking on her skin as she moves his hand back down between her legs.

She positions him where he needs to be – and then he's inside her. Petey lets out a hard moan and they look at each other in shock, a little bit of fear – and total bliss.

Petey starts to move under him, drawing his fingers in as deep as she can. Quinlan attacks her mouth with his, and Petey hears the telltale rattling in his throat – the Strigoi cry for blood. But not just anyone's, she knows – it's for hers, and _only_ hers. Instead of being terrified, it makes her feel special – wanted – needed. Desperately needed. And to be so desperately needed by one so powerful and feared turns her on even more. She moves his fingers, so some can stimulate her on the outside while still inside her at the same time – and she grinds harder, picking up the rhythm, riding the building wave. She doesn't even care how noisy she's being, or how her moaning might be echoing all over the building or who might be hearing them.

Then Petey hits her climax and she cries out as the wave bowls her over and she loses control of her body, her neck and back arching hard – and her loss of control makes Quinlan lose his. He breaks off kissing her as the stinger pushes its way out, and he pushes himself up to keep it away from her.

Still riding her high, Petey stares at the stinger as it hovers above her – then she locks eyes with Quinlan.

And she nods.

Quinlan hesitates, surprised – but she nods again, giving him permission to let go and do what he needs to do. He lifts her shirt and as soon as he sees bare skin the stinger launches, latching on to Petey's side by her ribs. She gasps, and her eyes roll back a bit – and Quinlan holds her down to keep her from moving around too much. He drinks her blood in and closes his eyes with the ecstasy of it, holding on until he hears her whimpering and he feels her blood pressure dropping.

Then he lets go and retracts the stinger, rocking his head back and bellowing like the creature he is. He licks every stray drop of blood from around his mouth and looks down at Petey with a heaving chest and clear eyes – but she's faded into unconsciousness, her eyes closed and her head lolling to one side, too heavy for her to move.

The heady fog of their sudden, fiery passion dissipates and reality sets back in. Getting his breath back, Quinlan moves off Petey and gathers her up, using her parka like a blanket. He adjusts his hold on her so her head rests on his shoulder, and he listens to the weak sounds that flow out with her breathing as he carries her back down the stairs – slipping quietly through the main floor to her room. He sets her down on her bed, just like he did after she let him feed on her the first time and saved his life.

He tucks her in, making sure her head rests comfortably cradled in the pillows. But this time when Quinlan goes back to the door, instead of immediately leaving, he locks it to keep any unexpected visitors from barging in. Then he returns to the bed and carefully slides on next to Petey, turning her sleeping face to his. He kisses her warm forehead and tangles his fingers in her hair, just staring at her until he feels an unusually peaceful drowsiness overtaking him too. Then a whispered thought escapes before he gives over to sleep.

"Thank you, my lady."


	12. Chapter 12

**_Chapter 12_ **

Quinlan awakens from his deep, unusually restful slumber only to find himself somewhere else. He sits up, not from the bed he laid down on but from a floor. He sniffs the air, and all he smells is – stale. Stale cigarette smoke, stale alcohol, stale food, stale perfume – it all smells stale. Old. Musty. He looks around at the cheap, secondhand furnishings of a cramped apartment. The colors and patterns of the décor – if one could call it that – clash so badly it almost hurts his eyes. But the lovely music he hears makes him forget the ugly surroundings. He stands up and can only take a few steps before bumping into something, everything's so annoyingly jammed in together – as if whoever lived there was trying to make an apartment out of a closet.

He follows the music, recognizing Eastern European instruments – the fiddle, the balalaika – music that reminded Quinlan of his roots, sort of. Half of the original Ancients – including The Master – came from the Old World. Every Strigoi, no matter where they were turned, viewed that part of the world like pilgrims viewed the holy land.

Then Quinlan hears the wonderful sound of a little girl's giggle coming from the hallway and he follows the sound. And just like before, he sees little Petey dash by him in a blur – the only sign of her having been there being a trail of wet footprints. Then Petey's mother comes around the corner with a towel, looking just as worn out as the last time he saw her.

"Petra…why do you do this to me every single time you take a bath? You know you'll catch such a bad cold, angel! Come put your clothes on now!" she says – but the only reaction she gets is more giggling.

"Find me, Mama!" little Petey's voice sings from her tiny bedroom – and the words strike Quinlan especially hard, sending him back to London to play games of hide-and-seek with Lydia – the little girl he also thought of as an angel. The little girl who never saw him as a monster – only ever as a friend, a father figure and her mother's savior.

_The very same words she used to say…find me, Mister Quinlan…_

He hears Petey's mother sigh hard, too exhausted to play – but after a moment, she gathers the strength from somewhere, grinning and holding the towel open. "I'm the famous monster catcher," she says, in a suddenly energetic, exaggerated tone. "I'm in the deepest, darkest woods right now looking for the scariest of all the monsters. I have my net and I'm waiting to catch her! She won't get away this time!"

"Yes, I will! _Rrrrarrr!_ " little Petey's voice answers back, and Quinlan actually chuckles at her adorable scary-monster roar. Then the blur reappears, whooshing out of her room and straight into the "net," which her mother closes around her like a trap.

"Gotcha!" she says, and they both fall on the floor laughing. Petey's mother smothers her with loud, smacking kisses on her cheek and then groans as she struggles to pick her up off the floor.

"Oh, my goodness, you're getting so big. Come on, up-up-up," she says, and little Petey jumps into her arms – and when her mother turns around, Petey rests her head on her shoulder, looking back at Quinlan.

And instead of screaming in horror, Petey smiles at him – her beautiful hazel eyes shining. "Mama…lookit the ghost!" she says.

"Ghost? What're you talking about?" her mother answers as she walks away with her.

"Right there, look!"

"Oh, angel…Mama's too tired to play anymore. Let's get you ready for bed, huh?" her mother says, and as they both disappear into the bathroom, the shared memory disappears around Quinlan – darkening. And as sweet as the memory was, Quinlan worries about this new aspect of their shared visions. _Did she really see me all those years ago? How could she have known?_

And when he opens his eyes he sees the little girl all grown up – her sleeping face still turned toward his, having not moved at all. Quinlan reaches up and touches her cheek, barely, not wanting to wake her.

"How are you doing this…?" he whispers to her, amazed at the ability Petey doesn't even know she has – amazed and worried. The fact that they could not only see each other's memories, but also now see each other _in_ them – is uncharted territory. Thrilling and incredible, but also risky as hell. And as much as he doesn't agree with The Ancients on much of anything, Quinlan understands their policy of never allowing their prey to survive. It kept possibly dangerous things like this from happening. _Who knows where it could lead…the harm it might cause…_

_God…what the hell have I done?_

Petey lets out a hard breath then, shivering – and before Quinlan can leave, as is his first thought to do, she opens her eyes. She sits up, and both look at each other with the same mix of shock, embarrassment – and after a few more seconds, relief.

"Hi," she says, feeling a kind of anxiety she hasn't felt since high school, when she accidentally bumped into the cute boy she liked from history class in the hallway.

"Good morning," he replies, with a similar, quiet nervousness. "Are—are you—how do you feel?"

Hearing him stutter like the same nervous teenager she feels like at the moment makes Petey grin a little, breaking the ice of awkwardness. "Umm…" she starts, taking stock of herself, "I'm…I'm okay…I think. Are _you_ okay?"

Quinlan lifts an eyebrow, her grin making him grin back, and he nods. "Yes, I'm…fine. Better than fine, actually," he replies – and as they stare at each other, they both feel heat building up between them again.

"This is so nuts…you know that, right?" Petey says, barely able to manage the breath to say the words. All Quinlan can do is nod back as he reaches over and pulls her into a kiss. Then it plays like a repeat of the night before as he pushes her back down on the bed and they attack each other with more kisses, getting deeper and wetter with every second. Petey sticks her hands under his coat to slide it off his shoulders and Quinlan thrashes it the rest of the way off. But just as he gets his hands under Petey's shirt to slide it up and off, a loud knock on the door startles them both. She and Quinlan stare at the door, and then at each other.

"Pete! You up?" Fet calls through the door.

"Fuck!" Petey shoves Quinlan off her, and nearly off the bed. Without talking, she gestures wildly for him to _"go away!"_ He looks around, throwing his hands up like, " _Where the hell am I supposed to go?"_ She signals back like, _"Don't know, don't care, just do it!"_

More knocking. "Pete?"

A low growl of frustration escapes Quinlan's throat as he grabs his coat and dashes into the closet. Petey jumps out of the bed and sprints over to the door. "Jesus, Fet…hold on a sec," she says, looking over her shoulder to make sure Quinlan's safely hidden and the room looks normal.

Then she opens the door, making sure to yawn. "Why dontcha just get a friggin' trash can and bang on it with a baseball bat while you're at it?" she says.

"Oh, well, mornin' to you too, sunshine. You look like shit, by the way," Fet replies.

"Gee, thanks."

"No, really…are you sick?" Fet asks, reaching out to feel her forehead like a parent would – but she blocks his hand.

"Stop it. I'm fine," she replies, irritated, as Fet pushes his way past her to get in the room before she can do anything.

"What the hell happened to you last night?" he asks, as Petey casts a worried glance toward the closet. Then she walks as far away from it as she can, not wanting Quinlan to overhear.

"I dunno…just another bad dream, I guess," she offers weakly, and Fet just makes a 'yeah, right' face at her.

"'Another bad dream?' While you were awake and in the shower? Yeah, don't think so. Talk to me," he says, grasping her by the arms and making her look at him. "You were scared outta your mind, crawling on the floor and all over me saying, 'make it stop, make it stop,' like a soldier havin' a war flashback. That's not normal. And _you're_ the nurse, you should know that!"

"What do you want me to say, Fet? I don't…I don't know why that happened. And I'm sorry that I keep freaking out on you like that, I don't mean to. It's just…" she trails off, unable to complete the thought without revealing the insanity of the last few hours.

"Just what?"

Petey can't help but glance at the closet – then she moves to the window, looking out. "Look, I can't explain it except that maybe it's all just catching up to me, y'know? A month on the road by myself…I must've killed at least ten people," she says quietly, forcing herself to talk about things she would rather forget just to keep Fet from figuring out what's really going on.

"Nah…ten Munchers," Fet corrects.

"One of them was a kid," Petey whispers. "Couldn't have been more than ten. Two months ago, he was probably riding his bike to school, playing video games with his friends, and…and I hacked his throat open with a machete."

Fet stands back at that, taking a step back in his mind as well – and he suddenly sees the whole thing from outside his privileged position. He suddenly sees things as perhaps his mother and father did, as the people he called friends and acquaintances did before the world changed. He sees things the way Petey's been seeing things until now – and all of a sudden, he realizes how traumatic the whole experience must have been for her. Having to go through it all alone, realizing that the only thing she could do would be to _walk_ the hundred miles between Philadelphia and New York to find him – to live homeless, afraid and hunted the whole way. To be one who heals and suddenly have to kill to stay alive _…yeah…traumatic._

Fet reaches out to hug Petey then, but she gently pushes his hands away again. "I'm okay…really."

"No, you're not. How could you be? None of this shit's exactly normal."

"You can say that again."

"And I'm sorry that I assumed you could just take all this in stride, just roll with it, y'know? I shouldn't have. I mean, this kinda shit…it changes your reality," he says, his mind formulating a new plan for her. "In fact, y'know what? Let's go. Pack your stuff."

"What're you talking about?"

"I'm gettin' you outta here."

"What?"

"You shouldn't be here. You're too close to…to everything here. Dangerous shit. Shit you're not ready for."

"Fet, I just got here. I came all this way so I could stay close to you. I'm not leaving."

"Yeah, well…it's more important for you to be safe."

"Okay, let's not go off the deep end here, alright?" Petey counters. "I think maybe I just need to rest. Take a day."

Fet looks her over, not entirely convinced that he's getting the full story – but then he sighs, giving over. "Alright…okay," he says and pulls her to him to kiss her forehead – which feels a bit too cool for his liking. "Rest up. And make sure you eat."

"Okay, Dad," she says, pushing him away affectionately. He squints back at her and then heads for the door.

"If something happens and you need me—" she starts.

"I won't bother you," he finishes.

"No, seriously—"

"I am serious. They can manage without you for a day. You just take of yourself," Fet says, the concern obvious in his voice. Petey leans on the door, giving him a wan smile.

"Okay," she replies, and he grins back at her before turning and walking off. She watches him go for a second and then shuts the door. As she shuffles by the closet, she knocks softly on the door, signaling the 'all clear.' Then she keeps on shuffling back to the bed and flops down on it, groaning, wrapping herself up in the covers and burying her head under a pillow.

Quinlan emerges from the closet and looks around, almost not seeing Petey under all the bedding – until it moves. He sits down on the edge and waits for her to emerge, a plume of blue hair finally sticking up.

"That was close," she mumbles, still half-buried in bedding. He leans in to put his face near hers and stroke her cheek.

"Fet's right, y'know. You don't look so good. Shall I stay with you?" he asks – and they stare into each other for a moment, both of them still tempted to pick up where they left off. But then Petey just bumps her nose into his, touching their foreheads together.

"Professor's expecting you, isn't he?"

"I can make up some excuse."

Petey sighs. "No, don't do that. You need to keep working. And I just need to…sleep."

Quinlan stares into her hard – then he cradles her face in his hand and lays a good, solid kiss on her mouth that Petey can't help but respond to. But as it deepens, she finds she doesn't have the strength to keep it up. She breaks off, eyelids heavy – and she lets out a soft 'mmm' sound as her head drops back down into the pillows. Quinlan watches her for a moment, as she sinks deeper into sleep – and for a second, he thinks maybe he should stay with her anyway. But then he realizes that she's right _…we do need to keep working, and as quickly as possible._ The Ancients reacted strongly to Setrakian's mention of 'the house of red and white' – they were onto something. Quinlan arranges the covers around Petey neatly, and then kisses her on top of her head. He whispers in her ear, closing his eyes as he breathes in the smell of her hair.

"I won't be far away."

* * *

_Richards Street, Red Hook_

Pounding on the door wakes Eph up from the nap he'd unintentionally taken, after finally finishing up on the new batch of toxin in the wee hours of the morning. He wipes the dried drool crust off his mouth and shuffles over to the door, making sure to stash the empty bottle of vodka under one of the tables. He slides open the window to see Kowalski there, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

"Mornin', Doc," he says.

"Hey," Eph replies tiredly and then unbolts the door, opening it up. Kowalski steps in with two rookies and Eph gestures to the six oil drums waiting for pickup. "There you go," he says.

"Alright, let's load it up," Kowalski orders, and the rookies start hauling the drums out with a dolly cart. Then Kowalski grins at Eph. "I brought you a present," he says.

Eph just makes a face at him. "Oh…okay. You shouldn't have. Really," he replies, as Kowalski leans back out the door, gesturing to somebody – and Eph's face goes from blasé and exhausted to surprised and pleased when Dutch enters, waving sheepishly.

"Surprise," she says, deadpan – but Eph smiles for the first time in a while.

"Hey…didn't expect to see you again. Thought you left town with your girlfriend."

"Yeah, well, long story short, I got the 'it's not me, it's you' speech and a boot up the ass."

"Oh…sorry," Eph offers, and Dutch just shrugs.

"Well, at least I managed to get in with Feraldo and her people. Which I guess includes you now, huh?"

"Yeah, I've been cooking up this as much of this toxin as I can for them. It's not working as well as we thought, but it's better than nothing. So, are you staying with the Professor then?"

"Uh…actually, I dunno. I'm sorta homeless at the moment."

"Well, you're welcome to come back here. It's just me and Zach. I'm sure Fet won't care, he's hardly ever here anymore anyway," Eph says, and Dutch has to stifle her relief, not wanting to seem too desperate.

"You sure? I don't wanna intrude on your father-son bonding thing."

"Shut up. Get your shit in here."

"Thanks," Dutch says, dragging in a shopping cart full of computers and various techie gear.

"We all good here then?" Kowalski asks, and Eph and Dutch nod. "Right. Thanks Doc."

Just as Eph shuts the door and slides the bolt down, Zach's voice booms from upstairs.

"Dutch!"

She looks up and smiles. "Hey, you!" she says, as Zach bounds down the metal staircase and practically tackles her – which surprises both her and Eph. "Whoa…now here's a bloke who knows how to give a proper welcome," she says, hugging him back, not realizing how much she missed such a simple gesture of affection.

"I didn't think we'd see you again," Zach says, and Dutch gives him a peck on the cheek.

"Aww, well, it's nice to be missed. I…I missed you guys too," she replies, surprised that she's getting so emotional. "So where's Nora hiding?" she asks Eph. Then her stomach drops when she sees the looks on both of their faces change drastically. The smiles disappear and cover over with grief. Zach looks up at Eph, and then he turns and goes back upstairs without another word.

"Oh…oh, no…" Dutch breathes, putting a hand over her mouth in shock. She grabs Eph's arm with her other hand, and despite all the mourning he's been doing, he can't stop the tears from forming in his eyes all over again. And Dutch tears up along with him, seeing how raw his pain is, how devastating.

She pulls him into a tight hug without another thought. "I'm sorry…I'm so sorry," she says, and Eph gives over, closing his wet eyes and hugging her back. Dutch feels the weight of his head on her shoulder, and she feels a terrible, sharp stab of guilt, knowing she bailed on her friends – friends who risked their own lives to save her. Now one of those friends has died. And she feels awful, realizing that perhaps if she had stayed, she could have helped prevent Nora's death.

"I'm so sorry, love," Dutch just keeps whispering to Eph as they stay there for a while in their embrace, just grieving and consoling each other.

Zach watches them through the railing upstairs, feeling the guilt rising up in him again. Even after confiding in his Dad and getting his reassurance that that nobody blames him for anything, Zach still can't help but feel responsible for Nora's death.

And he wonders if he'll ever be able to make up for it.

* * *

_One World Trade Center_

Eldritch Palmer's SUV rolls up in front of the tower and as his security detail scans the area, another guard retrieves a wheelchair from the trunk. He then helps Palmer out of the backseat and into the chair – and despite the crisp suit, Palmer looks and feels like the terminally ill man he is but has been fighting against his entire life.

Two soldier Strigoi guarding the front doors open them for him as the guards wheel Palmer in. Then two more Strigoi waiting inside escort them to the elevators – one of the Strigoi blocks all the guards except the one pushing Palmer in the wheelchair. The guards look to Palmer for orders, and he just waves them off.

"It's alright…stay with the car. I won't be long," he says with a weak voice.

The guards reluctantly fall back as the elevator doors open and the one guard left pushes the wheelchair in. The soldier Strigoi accompany them – but instead of going up to the Observatory, one of the Strigoi uses a keycard to access the lower levels, punching the button for the very bottom floor, housing the building's inner workings – the electrical, plumbing, heating and cooling systems.

When the doors open, most of the light disappears – and the hum and vibration of an entire floor of working machines hits them, causing Palmer to squirm uncomfortably in the chair, finding the noise painful to his ears. Two more Strigoi greet them with rattling growls, flanking Palmer and his guard as they walk toward a large, fenced-off space in the middle of the machines – inside of which sits The Master's huge, ornate coffin.

Palmer's eyes roam the length of the box, taking in what little he can see of the skillful carvings – made by none other than Abraham Setrakian himself during World War II, under Thomas Eichhorst's watchful, cruel supervision. The coffin sits slightly reclined, its doors open – revealing the bed of prehistoric loam inside, containing some of the decomposed remains of the archangel Ozryel, from whom all the Ancients descended. Palmer pulls an expensive handkerchief out of his Armani blazer and covers his nose and mouth with it – not only to cut the horrible stink, but also to muffle his coughs and catch the bits of blood coming up in his throat –more signs of his body's breaking down yet again. But he ignores it as he always has, straightening up in the chair in a feeble attempt to project strength.

The Master sits up inside the coffin, soil spilling off of his new host's face – and Palmer looks at him, confused, expecting to see the grotesque giant he's always seen before. The host reveals its change to a hairless, sexless Strigoi as he steps out of his ancient bed, dusting the soil off onto a massive plastic sheet underneath the coffin so as not to lose any of it. Palmer holds out a hand for the guard to help him up, and he stands with difficulty as the new host approaches him.

"Master? Is that you?" Palmer asks – but when he sees the yellow-orange eyes flash, he knows for sure. "What happened?"

"An unfortunate encounter with The Born…he has sided with the Jew pawnbroker and his band of rabble."

"'The Born?' Who is that?"

The Master turns aside to put on the long overcoat one of the soldier Strigoi holds open for him. "He is nothing more than a bastard…an abomination…a mistake that I intend to rectify. You do not need to know any more except that he is our enemy."

"I see," Palmer replies, bursting with curiosity – but he knows he can't push the issue without angering him. "So what is it you need from me now?"

"We cannot afford to lose any more time. We must move forward. Is the facility ready?"

"No, not yet," Palmer replies, and The Master's growling makes him gulp hard.

"That is unacceptable. We must begin harvesting…and we must bring about the Night Eternal. That was the arrangement," The Master bellows, in the same frightening voice as before – which seems far too large a voice to be contained in a normal man's body.

"The plan _is_ moving forward, Master. I have teams standing by, ready to seize the cargo on your word. But the logistics for the blood farms are much more complicated. All that equipment has to be custom made and then shipped all over the world. It takes time."

 _"_ _No excuses!"_ The Master suddenly roars, with a ferocity and volume that makes it appear as if his new host will explode with the force of it. Palmer cowers, forced back down into the chair. The Master gets in his face, pointing at him with a fingernail that grows longer and sharper as he stares at it.

"Thomas will supervise the completion of the facility here. Make sure he has everything he needs. And _you_ will ensure that the rest of the plan is completed…otherwise, I have no use for you. In fact…I wonder if your involvement is prudent. You have betrayed me once already."

Palmer's guard puts his hand on the butt of his gun – and that's all it takes for The Master to nod to one of the soldier Strigoi, who immediately launches his stinger with lightning speed. Palmer puts his hands up to protect his face, fearing he's about to be next as he hears the guards' blood being drained and his spent carcass hitting the floor.

"Master, please…I beg you…my health is failing again. If you need my help, then I need yours. I need the White," Palmer begs – and with a smug grin, The Master grasps the wheelchair on either side, putting his orange eyes right up to Palmer's terrified ones.

"How dare you ask me for anything…I should have killed you after your betrayal, which cost me the Lumen and my host! You are lucky to be here, old man. _If_ you fulfill your end of the deal, you may yet prevail, vibrant and immortal…but if you cross me again, I will make you suffer in ways you cannot even begin to imagine. Now _go_ ," The Master commands – then he spins the wheelchair around and pushes it with enough force to send Palmer flying, crashing into one of the electrical cabinets. He falls out of the chair in a pitiful heap, and The Master grins, amused – then he makes a simple gesture with his hand and the soldier Strigoi move in, gathering Palmer up and taking him back upstairs.

Only when the elevator doors have closed and he's alone does The Master let his guard down enough to stumble and groan, revealing how weakened he still is from Quinlan's attack. He breathes raggedly as he makes his way back to the coffin and lays down, burrowing into the healing soil like a mole – and dreaming of the Night Eternal, when he and all Strigoi would finally be able to roam the planet's surface again, and re-take control of it from the human cattle.

* * *

The soldier Strigoi who escorted Palmer to the elevator usher him out the front doors of the building, into the hands of his waiting security detail – who all exchange looks, confused as to why Palmer's alone. They move to draw their weapons, but Palmer immediately waves them off.

" _Don't!_ Do not engage! Just get me out of here!" he shouts, and the Strigoi bellow at the guards, ready to throw down. The guards scoop Palmer out of the chair and just about shove him into the backseat of the SUV, throwing the wheelchair in the trunk and then speeding off.

And as Palmer lies in the backseat catching his breath, the guard driving looks at him in the rearview mirror. "Sir, are you alright? Where's Davis?" he asks, referring to the unfortunate soul who wound up dead – and somewhere inside him, not as buried as most would think, Eldritch Palmer regrets the man's death and feels the responsibility for it.

"They killed him," he barely manages to get out, before a new coughing fit takes him over. He paws around for the mask connected to his portable oxygen supply and puts it on, closing his eyes as he sucks in a few deep breaths. After a moment, when his lungs stop hurting, he slips the mask off.

"Get word to Feraldo's people. I need to meet with Setrakian as soon as possible."

"Yes, sir. The Councilwoman called again today," the driver replies. "What should we tell her?"

"Have her come for lunch at Stoneheart tomorrow. It's about time we sat down together."

* * *

_Olympian Club_

Much of the morning goes by without a word being spoken by either Setrakian or Quinlan, as they examine the Lumen for any more information about the House of Red and White. Fortunately, there was more – and as Quinlan works to translate the varying regional dialects scrawled on the pages, Setrakian stares at him while absent-mindedly stirring his tea.

Finally, Quinlan sighs, feeling the old man's eyes boring into his face. "Something on your mind, Professor?" he asks, looking up at him. Setrakian looks into him with his wise, experienced eyes.

"Only the usual…killing The Master. Preventing the end of the world. Things of that nature," he replies, and Quinlan turns to look at him directly.

"I do not require some kind of lead-in to the point. You may speak plainly."

"Very well. Are you alright?"

"Yes…why do you ask?" Quinlan replies, and Setrakian squints at him – then he shrugs, taking a sip of his tea.

"To be honest, I'm not sure," he replies. "Something just seems…different about you."

Quinlan stares back at him, trying not to seem unnerved by his astute observation. Once again, Setrakian was proving to be even more formidable than Quinlan originally thought. "I think perhaps you are simply surprised by how quickly I've healed," he replies.

"Yes, I am. Your wounds were…quite severe," Setrakian says, his keen, probing stare getting under Quinlan's tough skin.

"Whatever it is you're getting at, I would appreciate it if you would just _get at it_ already."

"Fine," Setrakian says, getting up from his chair and walking over to him. Quinlan stands up as well – and even though he stands taller than the old man, he feels small.

"Did you feed on her?"

Quinlan can't help but blink at that – and Setrakian nods, hunch confirmed. "Mmm…that's what I thought," he says, looking Quinlan up and down with an unreadable expression that makes him feel even smaller.

"I did not attack her, if that's what you're thinking."

"Well, that's good to hear. So, what, you just asked her nicely?"

"She offered."

"She _…offered,_ " Setrakian repeats, in disbelief. "Even after you _did_ try to kill her before. She just…offered."

"I was dying, Professor. Petey is a healer. She simply did what was necessary to heal me. Nothing more."

"Are you sure?"

"What are you asking me, old man? Out with it!" Quinlan says, his eyes flashing with building anger – but Setrakian stays calm and cool, looking him up and down again.

"I heard noise in the stairwell last night. It certainly didn't sound…business-like."

Busted, Quinlan's rage downshifts at once. He paces away from Setrakian, not knowing what to say or do at this point. "You don't understand…" is all he can think of to say.

"Oh, I understand more than _you_ think I do," Setrakian replies, making Quinlan turn back around – and the old man sees the vulnerability there, the very human fear of being misunderstood and punished for it. "It is not a difficult equation to solve, Mister Quinlan. You are not just the average human who was turned. You were sired by one of the Ancients. It stands to reason that you would inherit some of their abilities…such as the ability to connect to the minds of those you prey on."

Quinlan watches as Setrakian goes back to the desk and sits back down, taking another sip of tea – and making a face. "Dammit…it's gone cold," he mutters. And Quinlan walks back toward him, cautiously, like a dog unsure if his master will give him a pat or a kick, but willing to take the chance.

"It has never happened to me before. I follow the same rule as the Ancients with prey. I don't let them survive…but obviously I couldn't hold to that with Petey," he offers.

Setrakian nods. "I see…" he starts, but Quinlan shakes his head.

"No, you don't, Professor…and neither did I," he replies, sitting on the edge of the desk. "I did not account for the possibility of my prey having abilities of her own."

Setrakian sits forward, clearly wanting to hear more. "What do you mean?"

"Ever since I took blood from her, I've been seeing visions. So has she. I see her memories, and she sees mine. We are connected now, in a very...unusual way. It is…a powerful experience," Quinlan says, finding his breath short just saying the words.

Setrakian nods again, slower, with deeper understanding. "I imagine it would be. Powerful enough to keep Miss Petey in bed all morning. Is she alright?" he asks, and Quinlan just tips his head, unsure.

"I hope so. What happened last night was…"

"None of my business," Setrakian says, waving him off, not really wanting the details. "All that matters to me is that she's alright. Although, I don't have to tell you what kind of hell you're in for with Mister Fet, do I?"

Quinlan rolls his eyes at that as Setrakian gets up, picking up his mug of tea. "You are going to have to tell him, you know, if he hasn't figured it out already. Mister Fet is many things, but stupid isn't one of them. Now, I'm going to drop the subject and go make some fresh tea. I'll leave it to you and Miss Petey to sort this out."

Setrakian ambles past him and through the swinging door to the kitchen – then he comes back in. "Perhaps Miss Petey would like some tea as well…and she should eat. Why don't you go check on her? Just don't take all day doing it," he says knowingly, before disappearing again.

Quinlan watches the door swing back and forth, a relieved smile spreading across his face - that then turns devilish as he races out of the study.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: This chapter contains sexually explicit content.
> 
> ** ALSO ** For those of you who like an audio/visual experience, I've made a special playlist over at YouTube for The House of Red and White. You can cut/paste this link to get to it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=84QF6LMaZEU&list=PLzADU6vd1yvQSoTpv1FFh2wxgLm1N5TZr
> 
> There's also 'Petey's Playlist,' with the songs mentioned in the story so far, which I'll be adding to as the story goes on. Hope y'all enjoy!

**_Chapter 13_ **

_Olympian Club_

Quinlan heads for Petey's room but finds it empty, the door left ajar. He checks the bathroom and the other rooms on the main floor, but she's nowhere to be found – so he grabs his hoodie and goes to the next logical location. He pulls the hood over his bald head and puts on his sunglasses to shield himself as he steps out onto the roof. Clouds cover the sky for the most part, but the sun's rays still penetrate enough to be lethal – here and there they make divine-looking beams of light that stretch down to the ground. Quinlan takes in the view and then looks around for Petey. He hears music, faint and tinny – then he hears her voice, as close as if she were standing right next to him.

"I'm over here."

He pokes his head around one of the air conditioning units and finds her sitting with her back up against it, bundled up in her parka with her legs crossed under her. She wears a beanie down low over her ears, her hands resting on her knees with her e-cigarette dangling between her fingers.

"Hi," Quinlan says as he sits down next to her.

"Hey," she replies, as she pulls her earbuds out, the Beach Boys' "Wouldn't It Be Nice" blasting out for a second of cheery lightness before she taps pause on the track on her phone. They share a look and then Petey takes a hit off the e-cig, turning her head to blow the smoke away from him – a smoker's way of being polite, even though the wind pushes the smoke back his way anyhow. They both sit for a quiet moment, looking out over the city – where they can both see smoke from structure and car fires dotting the landscape.

"I saw you with your mother…you were just a little girl, running around naked after your bath," Quinlan finally says, unable to stifle a grin – which makes Petey grin too, cracking up and blushing at her old, silly habit.

"Yeah...I was quite the exhibitionist. Ma would get so mad, 'cause I'd get water all over the floors…which she'd have to clean up, of course."

"You pretended to be a monster."

"Mmm…Ma would catch me in her 'net.' That was the only way she could get a towel around me."

"And you saw a ghost," Quinlan says, leaning in closer, studying her reaction closely. Petey's smile fades and her eyes go suddenly vacant, faraway. "Did you really see something then? Or is it just…us…getting our memories mixed up?" he then asks.

Petey takes a long drag off the e-cig, then she sniffs. "Y'know, I'm kind of afraid to answer that…like if I do, it means something bad is gonna happen," she then says.

"Why would you say that?" he asks, and she smiles to herself, thin, wistful.

"Just stuff Ma used to say…y'know, bad omens, shit like that. She always thought I had the 'gift'…that I was like, psychic or something. She used to freak me out with all her old gypsy superstitions."

"Just because your mother's beliefs were of the Old World doesn't mean she was wrong. There's truth in them…and I think you know now that she was right."

Petey looks at him directly. "Actually, no, I don't _...is_ this me? Or is it _you?_ I mean, doesn't The Master have psychic crap that he does to his victims? Wouldn't you have inherited that?"

"Perhaps…but this has never happened to me before. Which, if anything, tells me it's more you than me."

"Shit," Petey mutters, hanging her head. Quinlan ventures a hand out to touch hers – but she gets up and walks a few feet away. The wind picks up and Petey wraps her arms around herself, staring off into the distance so she doesn't have to look at him. Despite the sting of her brush-off, Quinlan knows how difficult it is for her – how new it all is. How, like Fet said to her, it changes one's known reality. He gives her a moment, then he stands up and approaches her slowly, like one would a skittish horse.

"I just came to tell you the Professor's making some tea. You should come down and eat," he then says, deciding that perhaps it's best to just back off – for now, anyway. He lingers on her distant expression for a moment, and then turns to leave – but before he can get too far, she calls to him.

"Quinlan…does he know?" she asks, finally looking at him. He nods, and she lets out a hard sigh, letting her head drop back, looking to the sky in frustration.

"Shit…fuck!" She stomps over toward the retaining wall and kicks it in frustration.

"He's not angry, if that's what's worrying you."

"It's not him I'm worried about. Goddammit…"

"Petey…look at me."

She shakes her head, which annoys him – so he walks over and puts himself in front of her, so she can't avoid him.

"No one understands what we are experiencing…no one but us. And I am sorry that your good deed got you tangled up in all this, but it is where we are now and there is no going back," he says, with a firm seriousness in his voice that makes her take a step toward him.

"That's just it, though…I _don't_ understand. I don't understand what's going on in my own head and it is freaking me the fuck out. I feel like I'm going nuts, and I'm…I'm scared…I'm more scared now than when I was on the road by myself. I'm scared that this is all going somewhere really, really bad," she whispers.

Quinlan takes his glasses off to look at her, to see the tears forming in her eyes as the sun's light makes his own eyes blurry with increasing pain. Petey sees his willingness to subject himself to it just to comfort her – and she feels that unique empathy swelling up in her again, overtaking the fear for the moment. She reaches up and wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him close so he can bury his face in her shoulder and shield his eyes again.

"Believe it or not, I'm just as…scared…as you are," he whispers back, closing his aching eyes, taking in her sweet smell.

"What're we gonna do?" she says, and he hugs her tighter.

"Right now, the only thing to do is get you back to normal again…and that won't happen until you get something in you besides nicotine," he replies, and he feels her shake with a laugh. Then she pulls back, and they look at each other, bumping each other's foreheads and noses affectionately.

"Come on," he says, taking her by the hand – he puts his glasses back on, and Petey wraps her other arm around his as he leads her back downstairs.

* * *

 

Setrakian stares down at the bits of chicken and noodles as he stirs it in the pot, absentmindedly watching the water blend with the yellowish glop that came out of the can – and something about the chemical reaction, the physics of such a simple thing suddenly turns something over in his mind. The two substances – the soup and the water – repel each other initially but with the addition of heat and integration by mixing, they merge together to become something new.

_…glop in a can plus water…something better together than alone…_

_…red plus white…equals…_

The old man's eyes widen as the mystery resolves itself in its mind, and he drops the spoon, letting it crash and clink on the floor. "I'll be damned…" he whispers – and then the kitchen door swings open. Setrakian turns to see Petey walk in with Quinlan right behind her, the two of them standing together in the doorway looking back at him.

"Are you okay, Professor?" Petey asks. Setrakian isn't sure whether he should say anything or not, so he blinks the stunned look off of his face and turns back to the soup – but Petey and Quinlan exchange a look, knowing they walked in on _…something._

"Ah, Miss Petey…glad to see you're up and about. Please, sit," he says – but before she can even pull out a chair Quinlan does it for her. Being a modern woman, she looks at him strangely at first – but then she realizes _…or is it remembers?_ that he comes from a time when courtesy was required behavior. A time when women were treated as delicate dolls, who would never be expected to open a door, pull out a chair or step in the mud. Petey sits down and Quinlan gently pushes her in before sitting down beside her.

Setrakian notices it too – the simple, old-fashioned gesture that, in Quinlan's case, conveys so much more. Setrakian pours the soup into the two bowls on the table, pushing one at her and then offering her a spoon. He then sits down across from them, opening up the box of saltines and crumbling a few of the crackers into the soup.

"I hope you don't mind chicken noodle," he says, and Petey grins, taking a few sips of the hot broth that feels good going down her throat and even better filling her empty, tense stomach.

"It's good…thanks," she says, munching on a cracker.

"I'd offer you some, Mister Quinlan, but it doesn't really seem like your…thing."

"Hardly. It looks rather disgusting, actually," Quinlan replies, and both Petey and Setrakian chuckle a bit.

"Dude, they call this Jewish penicillin, I'll have you know. Cures whatever ails ya…right, Professor?"

"Well, technically it's not Jewish penicillin if it doesn't have matzo balls," Setrakian replies, and Petey smiles wide.

"True, very true. But in a pinch…or during the apocalypse…the canned stuff is just fine. In fact, it's delicious," she says, ditching the spoon to lift the bowl to her mouth and drink the rest down. She puts the bowl down and wipes her mouth, noticing both of them staring at her.

"Sorry. Guess I didn't realize how hungry I was."

Setrakian looks into her and she into him, and the two of them seem to detach from the world for just a moment as he says, "That was a very brave thing you did, Miss Petey, offering your blood like that. I don't know anyone who would have done the same in your place. Even _I_ was tempted to leave Mister Quinlan on that pier to die after what he and Ephraim did."

"I only did what—" she starts, ready to spew the automatic line, but the Professor waves it off.

"No…something told you to do it. You _felt_ it…an instinct. Something that went beyond basic human decency. You and The Born…there is something much deeper going on between you, and I'm not just talking about the sex you were apparently having in the stairwell last night," he says, which snaps Petey out of the sort-of mesmerized state he had her in to blush with embarrassment. She looks to Quinlan, who just sighs and sinks back in his seat, draping a protective arm over the back of Petey's chair.

"Are you psychic, Miss Petey? Or an empath, perhaps?" Setrakian asks, and all Petey can do is shrug.

"Honestly, Professor…I don't even know what that means. My mother used to tell me stuff like that, but it's not like I was ever able to guess the winning Powerball numbers or anything. And I _definitely_ wasn't able to see that fuckin' vampires were gonna try to wipe us all out and take over the planet. I never saw _that_ coming."

Setrakian grins at her smart-ass-ness, and then glances at Quinlan, and then back at her, gauging the connection between them – which he can somehow feel, a vibe that only those touched by the Strigoi can sense. He can feel their bond solidifying with every passing moment, like braiding more strands into a rope to strengthen it – and he just knows, as certain as he knows that the Earth is round, and water is wet.

_It's sitting right here in front of me…the House of Red and White. They just don't know it yet._

And Setrakian realizes that the best thing he can do is give them the time and space they need to reinforce their bond – because without it, there would be no future.

"Well…now that you've eaten, I suggest you rest. I'm sure Councilwoman Feraldo will need you before too long," Setrakian says, and then nods to Quinlan as he gets up from the table. "In fact, I think I may take a short rest myself. All these late nights are catching up with me."

"I'll continue with the translation," Quinlan says, as Setrakian sets his dishes in the sink and heads out the door – and Quinlan makes a face at the Professor's not seeming to care much if he does or not. Petey clears the table and starts washing dishes – and suddenly, Quinlan's train of thought takes a sharp detour, watching her from behind. Watching her the same way he did before when he was half-dying – but this time, he's wide awake. And as his eyes travel from the top of her head down to her legs, the idea of spending the next few hours poring over musty pages of ancient script becomes less and less important. He stands up and approaches her as she finishes up, wiping her wet hands on a dishtowel. Just as she turns to look at him, he lays a solid kiss on her mouth. It takes her by surprise and she tenses up for a second – but only a second. Then she closes her eyes, melting into it as his arms encircle her waist. After a long snog, Petey breaks off to catch her breath and cool her rising temperature.

"Ohhhkay…this probably isn't the best idea right now," she whispers, and he grins down at her.

"I disagree," he replies, nuzzling around her ear, which makes her giggle like a kid.

"Yeah, I got that." She pulls back a bit to look at him, and she feels herself blushing under his focused gaze – something she never imagined happening, like everything else she's been experiencing.

"I'm still pretty beat," she says, and he nods. Then he takes her hand and leads her out of the kitchen. He looks up and down the empty hallway, listening – not hearing any movement. He keeps a hold of Petey's hand as he takes her into the stairwell, going up a couple of flights.

"Where are we going?" she asks.

"The Professor said I could take a room of my own, so I chose one away from…everyone else," he says, as they enter the darkened upper floor. He pulls out a key and opens one of the doors, but no light breaks through to illuminate the hall. Petey blinks a few times, her eyes adjusting to the lack of light. She looks around the room, noticing nothing unique about it. It just looks like all the other rooms – nice, clean, but no personality.

"I'm guessing you don't spend much time in here," she says, as Quinlan takes his hoodie off and lays it over one of the chairs.

"You guessed right. One who rarely sleeps has very little use for a bed."

"So why bother having one?" she asks – but as soon as she does, she realizes why. "Oh…" she says, moving over to the bed and sitting down on the edge.

"…'cause that's just what people do, right? They have rooms of their own. They have beds."

Quinlan kneels down in front of her, venturing to put his hands on her knees. "You _do_ understand," he says – marveling at her, relieved by her. "The Professor's right. Empathy…that's your gift, Petey…one of many."

She smiles down at him, reaching out to touch his face, tracing along his jaw and cheekbones. Then she moves in and kisses him lightly, over and over until he takes over and slides upward, easing her down onto the bed. They kiss deeply for a long while, until Petey breaks off to catch her breath again. She turns her head, letting him move his mouth down her neck to the spot between her neck and shoulder that makes her laugh – but she stifles it, still thinking she needs to keep quiet.

Quinlan looks down at her. "You don't have to hold back. No one will be listening this time, I assure you."

She looks up at him with a tired smile. "What do you want, Quinlan?" she asks – not in a bossy, demanding way, but sincerely, with genuine interest.

"I would think that would be obvious."

"Yeah...besides that," she laughs. "There's so much more going on in that head of yours. What do you see right now? Tell me," she whispers – and her gentleness and openness, pierces right through him, cutting him open, letting the bottled-up anguish spill out.

"I see…everything…" he replies, his perfect self-control slipping away, running off of him like water, running out of his eyes in tears. "…everything I ever wanted…everything it seems I cannot have."

Petey takes in a sharp breath at that, feeling the pain in his voice cut through her, too. She cradles his face in her hands, speaking softly. "God, you _are_ afraid, aren't you…all the time," she says – and suddenly, flashes of his memories hit her hard, as if a strobe light started going off in her face.

She sees a city _…an old city…London…a Victorian house…a sitting room…a pretty, brown-haired woman in a lace dress…a little girl hugging her…and then running to hug Quinlan…playing hide-and-seek with him…_

_…find me, Mister Quinlan…_

Petey sees Quinlan in bed with the woman, pushing up her dress to reveal her bare legs and latching his stinger onto her. Then she sees Quinlan fighting The Master, getting impaled on his own sword. She sees him returning to the house, only to find the woman and her daughter lying side by side in that same bed – their eyes glazed over, their throats punctured, twitching with the beginnings of Strigoi movements. Then she sees Quinlan cutting both of their heads off with his sword – freeing their souls but dooming himself to a life alone, for fear of bringing the same fate upon someone else.

Petey lets out a sob, in shock, terror and pain – his pain – and she hugs him to her. "I'm sorry…" she breathes into his cheek, her empathetic tears wetting his skin. Quinlan lets himself cry along with her, allowing himself an all-too-rare moment to grieve the loss he suffered over two hundred years ago.

"You had a family…and he took it from you," she says, pulling back to look at him, turning his face to face her. "That's all you really want, isn't it…just what everyone else wants…a family."

Quinlan can't summon the words to reply – but he knows he doesn't have to, as Petey runs her fingers up and down his cheek. He kisses her firm and deep – she responds, and they let themselves go, stopping all thinking and just giving over. Quinlan breaks off from her just long enough to strip off his vest and shirt – but before he can take everything else off, Petey stops him.

With surprising strength – combined with a sudden willingness on his part to let himself be controlled – Petey rolls him over and straddles him. She runs her fingers along his skin ever so lightly from the top of his head, down the bridge of his nose, over his mouth and chin – and down along his neck, tracing the intricate branding rolling in swirls over his throat. She looks down on him with a mix of power and excitement and delirium – tripping on their shared pain and mutual desire. Then she bends low over him, laying feather-light kisses on his chest and abdomen. She pays special attention to the healed-up wounds, now just scarred lines and bumps – and the barely-visible cut on his neck from the first time they ever met.

Quinlan has to shut his eyes, trying uselessly to stop his body from trembling with all the overwhelming sensations rushing through him, as her long hair brushes his skin and her hands and fingers travel over him. He lets her go another moment until he can't take it anymore and then he sits up, pushing her back up to grab her around the back of her neck and kiss her hard. He snakes his other hand under her shirt, laying a palm on her bare back – feeling silky skin covering her spine, driving him crazy with lust for her flesh and her blood.

Petey breaks off the kiss to peel her shirt off – and with a building rumbling in his throat, Quinlan grabs onto the band of her bra and rips it off her without even trying very hard. She gasps, stunned for a second at being exposed – Quinlan looks her up and down and then takes over, getting back on top of her, pushing her down so her head is at the foot of the bed. He pulls her pants and underwear down and Petey works them off the rest of the way, kicking them aside. Quinlan takes a few seconds to just look at her, to take in her full, naked form –and Petey's surprised that she doesn't feel self-conscious under his gaze.

She feels adored _...beautiful._

Quinlan gets to work then, doing to her what she did to him, taking her in with his hands and his mouth – starting on her face, behind her ear, down her neck. When he gets his hands around her breasts they both sigh, as their lust ratchets up even higher. Quinlan feels Petey move under him, her legs twisting around his, her hips pushing up against him. She cranes her neck up to kiss him hard, and then he breaks off to move down to her breasts, taking each nipple in his mouth, working them with his tongue until they're rigid with blood flowing into them – blood he can smell and hear moving through her. Petey moans with the rush, running her hands along his scarred shoulders and back, digging in with her fingertips. Quinlan moves back up to kiss her again, and she moves her hands down between them, tugging at his belt – he helps her get the buckle undone and she tears open his fly, pushing his trousers down and running her hands over his ass, using her legs and feet to work the pants the rest of the way off.

Quinlan buries his face in the warmth and softness of her abdomen and belly, growling low, loving the feel of her flesh. Petey wasn't fat or skinny – she had enough meat on her to make her belly a luscious pillow he could nestle into. He kisses her with an open mouth, feeling the tiny, feathery hairs on her skin and sticking his tongue into that funny little hole _…what do people call it again? Oh…the belly button…_

Petey instinctively twitches and laughs with the tickling, and Quinlan looks up at her with eyes full of fascination and mischief. She reaches down and caresses his face, smiling down at him with affection so deep it makes him sigh with equal parts disbelief, gratitude and need. He climbs up to kiss her again, to taste her sweet mouth and let his human tongue dance with hers. Then he moves back down, leaving a trail of wetness in a line down the middle of her body, all the way down to her hips.

Petey shivers a little, watching Quinlan nuzzle her lower belly and then hook her legs over his shoulders. He starts kissing the insides of her thighs, and she drops her head back with the ecstasy of it – feeling like her whole body has turned into one big, raw nerve, every touch just about enough to push her over the edge. She feels his hands moving between her legs, preparing to do to her what he did to that handmaiden in Rome – what he no doubt did to the woman in London.

Then Petey inhales sharp and loud as Quinlan dives into her sex, thinking for a second that she might actually pass out from the head rush _…jesus, it's been so long…_ So long since she'd been with anyone, even longer since she had sex this intense – in fact, she can't recall _ever_ having sex as intense as this. She can't remember ever having a connection this deep with anyone or being so overwhelmed with emotion. Her eyes sting with tears and all she can do is cradle Quinlan's head in her hands and let him consume her – just closing her eyes, tripping on the building rush.

Quinlan feels her body writhe and tremble in an uncontrollable way, purely reacting to what he's doing. He closes his eyes, listening to the lustful noises coming out of her – music to his ears, encouraging him to keep going. He does everything short of unfurling the stinger – something he finds he really, _really_ wants to do. The more he tastes of Petey's unique essence, the more he craves it. She smells and tastes different than the Roman handmaid, different than Louisa – similar, but different. He's not sure if it's because it's just been so damned long since he was intimate with a woman or what – but he tastes a sweetness that he's never experienced, like she was coated with honey on the inside. He finds her taste as desirable as her blood – his need for it surging, filling his head to the point where he thinks it might explode. He slides his hands down her thighs and underneath her to squeeze her ass, which makes her cry out – and he feels her tensing up, grinding hard against him. Then her cries grow loud and wild as she finally climaxes, her back arching and lifting up off the bed, going rigid.

She grabs at Quinlan's shoulders, pulling him back up to kiss him hard while she rides out her orgasm, tasting herself on his lips. They look deeply into each other as she moans into his mouth – cries that soften as her body relaxes. Then she lets go of him and collapses, her arms going limp and falling to her sides. She feels the electric-like shock diminishing, morphing into euphoria that clouds her head, blurs her eyes and drains her energy.

Quinlan studies her reactions closely, pleased with what he's done to her. He runs his hand gently across her cheek and down her body, feeling the built-up heat coming off her and the barest sheen of sweat on her skin. He lies down next to her, draping his arm across her stomach, wanting to absorb her warmth – and he puts his face right up against hers, kissing her forehead, her closed eyelids, the bridge of her nose, her cheek. His throat rumbles with desperation for her blood and he licks his lips over and over, still tasting her there – but all it does is intensify his thirst, which he knows he can't satisfy. He couldn't take any more from her – not now.

He would have to kill tonight – no choice.

But for the moment he pushes it down, quiets his mind and concentrates on Petey – staring at her from super up-close, listening to her breathing as she slips into the fog of sleep. But before she disappears completely she turns toward him to snuggle into him, and she grabs onto his arm, holding it securely to her. Quinlan closes his eyes at the simple gesture that means so much more to him, The Born – the monster cursed to live forever but never really live at all – until now.

_Perhaps, finally…now._

* * *

 Setrakian lies on the couch in the study, staring up at the ceiling – listening to the unnerving silence all around. Never in a million years did he think he would miss the city's noise, but here he is, missing it terribly. What he wouldn't give for some traffic, for some car horns and some angry drivers' obscenities to distract him from the whirlwind of heavy thoughts in his mind. The revelation he'd just come to a little while ago – one known only to him, for the moment – threatens to, as the kids today would say it _…blow his mind._

For so much of his life, he thought the end-all-be-all was destroying The Master – that _that_ was the ultimate solution, that ridding the world of the Strigoi was what God intended him to do. But now that he's realized just what the House of Red and White is, he feels like his inner compass has gone haywire – he's lost true north. He turns it over in his mind, what it all means. He tries to foresee past The Master's death. He tries to see the new world beyond, where the descendants of The Born and an ordinary human woman are the new, dominant race – a world where humans have evolved past what they always believed possible. A world where their combined traits would be the undoing of one of the most ancient of all species on the planet.

_…Quinlan and Petey…the new Adam and Eve…_

_…my God._

One thing he knows for sure – The Master wouldn't be their only concern now. The rest of the Ancients, reluctant allies as they are, would never stand for a blending of the races. Conversely, humans probably wouldn't, either. In their minds, it would be an 'us or them' situation. Quinlan, Petey and any child they had would be hunted down mercilessly – the Ancients to kill it, the humans to dissect it _and then_ kill it.

 _Shit…shitshitshit…_ Setrakian sits up, leaning on knobby old knees in worn-out, corduroy pants as he follows the train of thought deeper still. But all he finds is one truth – that it isn't just about killing The Master anymore.

_It's about protecting the future…one that I will probably never see, but one that must be if humanity is to survive._

Setrakian flexes his hands, feeling the beginnings of arthritis creeping back into them – the first sign of the White starting to wear off. Another few days or a week at most, and he would be utterly useless. He clenches his jaw hard, not relishing having to endure another dose – but there was no choice. He had to. He had to keep going, and he had to be strong. He had to have every resource available to him if he was going to help ensure the House of Red and White's successful creation.

_Every resource…_

The thought suddenly reminds him of Eldritch Palmer's plea for the White, the old bastard still waiting for his answer. Palmer would do anything to extend his life – to keep playing at being the forty-year-old virile hero instead of the eighty-year-old failure. He couldn't be trusted, that was plain – but he could be used, and be very, very use _ful_. And Setrakian slowly realizes that he doesn't have to give Palmer everything he wants in order to get what he needs.

_Just a taste…a carrot to dangle in front of his greedy eyes._

With a sly grin and renewed purpose, the Professor gets up off the sofa and goes to the kitchen, digging around in the drawers and cabinets until he finds what he needs – a small, sample-size glass jar that once held grape jelly. He washes it out and wipes it dry, and then heads for the main lounge. He grabs up his coat, hat and the ornate sword-cane that once belonged to The Master, gripping it tight. He wraps a wool scarf around his neck as steps into the elevator and rides down to the ground level.

And once outside, it only takes a few blocks of walking in any direction before Setrakian hears the noisy, rattling breathing of a Strigoi drone nearby. He keeps walking, his breath coming out in steamy wisps as the drone closes in on him. Setrakian waits until the very last second, until its breath has turned into the loud hissing that emanates right before the stinger deploys –

Setrakian lets out a war cry of his own as he whirls around – and the sound of a hard **_sssshink!_** and a fleshy, juicy hit rings out. The drone's body drops like a rock, its head rolling a few feet away – and the Professor stares down at the white, wormy blood spilling out from the neck.

He wipes the sword blade off on the drone's tattered clothes, and then crouches down beside the body, digging in his pocket for the little jar. He carefully scoops up as much of the blood as he can with it, making sure none of it gets on his hands. Then he seals it up and walks back to the Olympian Club to prepare for a night of ancient potion-making.

 


	14. Chapter 14

**_Chapter 14_ **

_Near Strawberry Fields, Central Park_

 

Fet, Gus and Angel all sit atop a city utility box, taking a break and chugging water. They'd spent most of the day searching the tunnels underneath the park and so far, had only come across minimal Strigoi presence. Fet could tell that Gus and Angel were getting antsy, feeling like they were wasting their time doing the same stuff Feraldo's civilian squads were doing. But Fet had a feeling about the park – a bad one – and until they'd searched the entire area, he didn't feel satisfied enough to tell Feraldo it was clear.

"Yo, Fet…how much longer are we gonna be fuckin' around down here, man?" Gus finally asks.

Fet takes off his headlamp to scratch his head and massage his scalp. "Sorry, guys…I know this ain't exactly been the most exciting day."

"I'd like to get back top side where I can at least breathe some good ol' dirty air instead of this funk," Angel chimes in. "Starting to feel like a rat down here, man."

"Well, that's kinda the point," Fet replies, chugging some more water. "There's a whole city _underneath_ the city, y'know what I mean? It's the perfect way for the Munchers to move around."

"Dude, we ain't seen dick all day 'cept a few stragglers. Think it's safe to say it's clear," Gus says, jumping up from the utility box and shuffling around anxiously. "We need to concentrate on finding The Master."

"Yeah, well, we don't even know what he looks like now that Bolivar's dead. And the Professor said even the Ancients don't have a line on the new host yet. So until we get some reliable intel, we gotta keep pushing toward taking Manhattan back," Fet replies, securing his headlamp. "Let's just get as far as Sheep's Meadow…maybe Columbus Circle. Then we'll call it a night. If we can at least get that far without running into any more of 'em, I think we'll be good. C'mon, let's hit it…ammo check."

With reluctant sighs, Gus and Angel check their weapons and belts, counting rounds. Then they all switch their headlamps back on and push on, following Fet's lead through the seemingly unending maze of tunnels. As they trudge on and on, turning this way and that, Gus shakes his head – partly in frustration, partly in amazement.

"Dude, we don't even have a map or GPS or jack shit. I mean, I thought I knew this city. I _do_ know this city. But this is not that city…this is…somethin' else entirely. How the fuck do you even know where we are right now?"

Fet grins as they descend another set of stairs down. "Well…honestly? I don't, exactly."

Gus and Angel both stop at that. "Don't even joke about that, man," Angel warns.

"See, here's the thing…there's a new tunnel system down here for the city's water," Fet replies, as he looks up and down the corridor. "You guys remember Bloomberg doing that fuckin' press conference underground, right? That's where he was…but the problem is that the exact locations of the access doors are like, super hush-hush. I was never able to find 'em on any city maps. But I _know_ one of em's around here somewhere."

"So what? Why are we even bothering with this?" Gus asks.

"Think about it for a sec. Where would the perfect place be for The Master to hole up, huh? Especially while he's injured? Underground…deep underground, preferably in a spot no one knows about."

Angel and Gus exchange looks at that, both thinking the same thing _…maybe the Rat Man does have some idea what he's doing after all._

"Alright, makes sense…but how long are we gonna spend trying to find it? We could be chasin' this down forever, man."

"Nah, listen _…it's here,_ there's no question about that. So all we gotta do is find the spot that lets us go down even deeper than we are now. Deeper than the subway. And we're close…I know it. Just trust me, alright?"

They continue searching for another half-hour or so when Angel suddenly stops and looks back. Gus stops too, and then Fet. "What is it?" he calls back, and Angel points to a nearby door – heavy, like the kind used for a bunker.

"Whatcha got?" Fet asks, and Angel points to it.

"Notice anything?" he asks – and at first Fet shakes his head. But then it dawns on him.

"It's blue," he says.

"It's blue," Angel repeats. "Everything else we've seen down here is just gray…except this."

Fet grins at him. "Good eye, luchador," he says, and takes off his backpack – setting it down to dig in his bag of tricks.

"Got a crowbar?" Gus says, but Fet just winks at him as he pulls out one of his homemade bombs.

"Chinga…you been carryin' that shit around the whole time?" Angel says, backing off a step.

"Never leave home without it," Fet says, as he secures it to the lock with some putty. Gus and Angel exchange worried looks at the gleam in Fet's eyes as he takes a cigarette lighter out of his pocket. "Best get to minimum safe distance, gentlemen," he announces.

Angel and Gus take off running down the corridor as Fet clicks the lighter and the fuse sparks, hissing as it starts burning down the twine. "Boom, baby," Fet whispers – and then takes off running too. And ten seconds later, a sound like a sonic boom rings out along with what feels like a small earthquake as the bomb explodes and takes the door with it. Fet smiles as he backtracks through the cloud of dust, waving it out of his face – and when he sees the hole where the door used to be, he laughs.

" _Ha!_ Woo! Let's go!" he cheers, as he launches through the smoking hole head first. Gus and Angel hang back, exchanging uncertain looks.

"That muthafucka's certifiable, y'know that, right?" Angel mutters – and Gus just shrugs.

"Well, we wanted action. You first," he says, gesturing for Angel to go ahead of him. Angel sighs and mutters curses under his breath as he steps through – and Gus takes one last look up and down the corridor before he follows. He and Angel catch up to Fet, who's standing on a catwalk, looking down at a space that descends at least another ten storeys.

"Bingo. Good catch, man," he says to Angel. "We just found our passage. Let's go. Lights on."

All three of them switch on their headlamps and descend the metal stairs as lightly as they can, until they reach the bottom level. Fet digs another flashlight out of his pack and shines it around – but even though the beam is wide and bright, they can't see anything but pipes and dark tunnels ahead and behind.

"Well…which way now?" Gus says.

"Not sure. You got a gut feelin' on it?" Fet replies.

Gus stares into the darkness – then he turns and gives the other direction a good look with his own flashlight. And after a second, something dashes through the narrow field of light. He couldn't see it clearly, but in his gut he knows it's a Strigoi – probably a sentry of some kind.

"This way…shut the flashlights off."

The guys turn off the flashlights and cover their headlamps. And after a few minutes of creeping along in the near-total darkness, they all become aware of a weird sound. They stop and look at each other – and Fet takes a chance, uncovering his headlamp to look around. He sees yet another mess of ladders and pipes – and an open hatchway in the floor to the space below.

He gestures for Gus and Angel to follow as he moves toward it. They kneel down, gathering around it, hearing the sound even louder and stronger now. Fet digs in his pack for a length of heavy twine, which he ties around the flashlight and lowers into the hatch. And all their eyes widen when they see what's below them – what's making the strange sound.

"Holy shit…" Fet breathes, turning the twine to swing the beam around – casting a weak pall of light over a giant nest of sleeping Strigoi – whose unified, beast-like breathing makes the strange noise they were hearing.

"Gotta be at least a thousand of 'em down there…how the fuck did they get in?" Gus whispers.

"The new tunnel system runs all the way out to Yonkers. They coulda gotten in through there."

"Chinga…" Angel whispers. "That's a lotta fuckin' bloodsuckers, man. You got enough dynamite for all of 'em?"

"Not on me," Fet replies. "And dynamite's not gonna do the job anyway…not one this big. We need somethin' custom-built here…and a fuck-ton of silver nitrate."

"Silver? Where the hell're we gonna find that much?" Angel says.

"Dunno yet. First things first," Fet replies, pulling the flashlight back out and shutting it off. "We gotta get back topside and let Justine know about this."

"Wait a minute…why're they all asleep? It's dark now, they should be out hunting," Gus says – and after a moment of communicating silently with Fet, they both start to figure it out.

"Hibernation…like they're waiting for something…like a signal from The Master," Fet says.

"If he released 'that many all at once it'd totally overwhelm NYPD," Gus adds.

"Shit," Fet breathes, grabbing up his stuff. "C'mon, let's go, let's go!"

But they only get as far as the ladder before the Strigoi Gus initially spotted rears its ugly, deformed head, dropping down from above. Fet, Gus and Angel turn to see two more sentries coming at them from opposite directions.

"No noise! Take 'em out quiet!" Fet whispers harshly, reverting to his standby piece of rebar to bash his attacker's head in – while Gus and Angel whip out their backup hardware-store machetes to deal out quick, efficient death blows. All three sentries go down, and the guys scramble back up to street level as fast as they can.

* * *

_Stoneheart Group – W. 57_ _th_ _St., Manhattan_

 

Capt. Kowalski pulls up to the front of Stoneheart's headquarters, one of the city's many skyscrapers and parks the government SUV. Then he gets out and opens the back door for Councilwoman Feraldo, who steps out – she brushes off her wool coat and fluffs her hair.

"Not wearing too much makeup, am I? Do I look alright?" she asks.

"You always look alright," Kowalski replies, and she gives him a knowing smirk.

"Smart ass."

"You want me to go in with you?"

"'Course I do," she says. "But somehow I don't think Palmer's gonna allow it."

"What do you think he wants?"

"No idea…but we could really use his help, so I'll say whatever he wants to hear as long as it doesn't end up costing us," Feraldo says quietly, as they make their way through the front doors – now guarded by private security – and into the massive lobby, where two more sharp-suited security guards greet them.

"Councilwoman…welcome. Mr. Palmer's expecting you. Elevator's this way, if you'll come with me," one of them says – and then immediately shoots a hard look at Kowalski.

"I'm afraid Mr. Palmer insists on meeting the Councilwoman privately," he then says, not-so-subtly. Feraldo just nods at Kowalski, who just rolls his eyes.

"Uh-huh. I'll be in the car," he says nonchalantly, and walks out. Feraldo follows the guard's lead to the private elevator and steps in first. Then the guard enters and presses the only button – the doors close and Feraldo stumbles a bit as it takes off like a shot, rocketing the car all the way up to the top floor. She exchanges an awkward look with the guard, who after a moment gets up enough nerve to speak.

"It's, uh…it's very brave what you did, ma'am —what you're doing, I mean. Y'know, defending Staten Island, trying to take the city back."

Feraldo straightens up at that. "Thanks. Where're you from?"

"Oh, I'm from Cleveland. Transferred from Stoneheart's offices out there."

"I see…is it just as bad out there?"

"Yeah, it's bad. Wish Ohio had someone like you to take control of things."

"I'm nobody special. I just got pissed off enough to do something, that's all," Feraldo says.

"Not to disagree with you, ma'am…but if you weren't special, Mr. Palmer wouldn't be meeting with you," the guard replies, just as the elevator slows and stops. Feraldo stares at the guy, not sure if she should be flattered or worried by his remark. But he gives her a polite nod as the doors open and he holds them open for her. She steps out and can't help but be stunned by the expanse of the space and the posh-but-tasteful décor.

"Just wait here a moment, ma'am. Mr. Palmer will be with you directly," the guard says, and then disappears as the elevator doors close on him. Feraldo takes her leather gloves off and stuffs them in her coat pocket as she walks to the floor-to-ceiling windows and looks out over her beloved city, that's quickly turning into an apocalyptic nightmare despite all her efforts. She shakes her head, seeing what _should be_ a lovely nighttime view – now sullied by all the darkness from power outages, smoke from all the fires still burning around the city, abandoned streets and looted buildings.

_My beautiful city's bleeding to death...being drained of its life, just like all its people._

"Councilwoman…thank you so much for coming," she then hears behind her. Feraldo turns and is surprised when she has to lower her eyes to find Eldritch Palmer, rolling over toward her in a motorized wheelchair. He's dressed well, groomed nicely – but he looks so _…old…so frail._ Nothing like he looked when she saw him last, and he seemed every bit the healthy, elder statesman.

"Mr. Palmer," she says, surprised – then she realizes she's gaping and shuts her mouth. She extends her hand to shake his, gently, as if she might break bones if she grips too tightly. "I'm sorry, I…I didn't realize you were sick."

Palmer just tips his head aside, brushing it off. "I've been ill all my life, Councilwoman. I just usually do a better job at hiding it. But this time, I'm afraid, I will probably _not_ be able to put myself back together again," he says, as he turns the chair and she walks with him over to the table that's been set up for them. "Please, take a seat," he says, gesturing to the chair set out for her. Feraldo sits and watches as Palmer rolls around to the other side. "I am sorry that I had to make our lunch a late supper, but I'm afraid it couldn't be helped."

"That's alright," Feraldo replies as a portly, older woman comes bustling out of another room with a tray and sets it down in front of her, nodding at her curtly. Feraldo looks down to see a crisp, white plate with a pastrami-on-rye sandwich and a pickle spear. She looks up at Palmer with wide eyes.

"Oh my god…where did you manage to find pastrami?" she asks, as if it's been a million years since the end of everything normal, instead of just a few months.

"The family that runs Katz's are old friends of mine. I thought you might enjoy something classically New York," he says, as the older lady hustles out of the room and then right back in with his tray, just a simple bowl of soup that Feraldo makes a face at – a cloudy, whitish broth with white squares of tofu and globs of seaweed floating around in it.

"I wish I could join you, but I'm afraid my stomach just can't handle it these days. Luckily, I've always been fond of a well-made miso soup."

"Looks…very healthy," Feraldo offers, feeling guilty about indulging when her host clearly isn't.

"Oh, please, eat. It would be a sin to let that amazing meat go to waste," Palmer says with a gracious smile, and Feraldo picks up half of the sandwich, taking a small bite – and she immediately closes her eyes in bliss.

"Ohhh…" she sighs. "I didn't realize 'til now just how much I missed this. Thank you, Mr. Palmer."

"Not at all. I'm glad to have brightened your day," he replies, sipping his soup. They eat in silence for a moment before Palmer dabs at the corners of his mouth with the cloth napkin in his lap.

"Now…I'm sure you're wondering why I asked you here," he says – and Feraldo chews quickly, taking a drink of water before wiping her own mouth.

"You could say that, yeah. But I'm glad you did…and not just for the pastrami. I've been meaning to contact you anyway, I just…I've been so swamped with the task force, and—"

"And a brilliant job you've been doing," Palmer finishes. "I give you so much credit for taking the reins on such a massive and dangerous task. You have, if I may say, the balls to do what's necessary. I admire that."

"Thank you…so do you."

"I am trying, however I can."

"Well…if I may get right to the point, sir…it's my people who are really taking the risks, not me. And I need help to help them."

"Of course…what do you need?"

"Right now? I could really use your Freedom Centers. My raid teams are getting the shit kicked out of 'em night after night—excuse my language—and I just don't have the resources to take care of the injured. Just a couple of doctors and nurses on-call and a jury-rigged triage area at the HQ. Quite frankly, sir, _you_ have the monopoly on medical care now."

Palmer studies her for a moment – and Feraldo has to wonder what exactly he's thinking. But then he nods, stern. "I see…well, consider it done. I'll make sure all the centers know to accept your people and make sure they get priority treatment for emergency services. Would that work?"

Feraldo sighs with relief. "Yes…definitely. Thank you."

"Of course. I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were in need before. Anything else you're short of that I could help you sort out?"

"Well, we could always use more weapons and ammo…reliable vehicles and gas. But I don't know if that's something you're able to get," she says, which Palmer laughs at.

"Please…guns and gas are much easier to come by than that pastrami, believe me. Whatever you need, I'm sure I can find," he says – and without even thinking, Feraldo reaches out and grabs his hand to squeeze it in appreciation.

"Thank you so much, Mr. Palmer. You have no idea how much this'll help us," she says, and with such sincerity that Palmer stares at her in amazement.

"You are a wonder, Councilwoman. I sincerely regret not reaching out to you sooner," he says, and she smiles back.

"Well, you did. That's all that matters, right?"

"Indeed," he replies. "And I hope that, should the need arise, that I may be able to call on _you_ for help as well."

Still maintaining the instincts of the savvy politician, Feraldo takes that in with a sharp wariness. _Even now,_ she suddenly realizes _— even in the middle of the apocalypse, it's still business as usual…nothing's free. He wants my loyalty…quid pro quo._ But even though her gut tells her not to agree so easily, she thinks of every cop, first responder and civilian now under her authority – _her_ responsibility. She has to do whatever she can for them, even if it means putting herself in a position she's not comfortable with.

"Of course," she replies – hoping to hell she doesn't end up regretting it.

* * *

_Tavern on the Green – Central Park_

 

Quinlan approaches the quaint 19th century building that used to house sheep – and was later turned into one of the city's most famous restaurants, from what he understands. He walks a slow circle around the perimeter, looking and listening for any signs of movement as he admires the old-fashioned lampposts and cobblestone walkways. The building would be an excellent shelter for anyone looking to hide – and being a restaurant, there would be food left inside. In other words, it was a perfect place to find a meal for himself.

Soundlessly pulling out his sword, Quinlan makes his way into the building through a busted-out glass wall. He maneuvers around the tossed chairs and tables, keeping his pointed ears tuned for any sound. He runs a hand over the upholstered chairs and the wilted, withered flowers in vases. He imagines the bustling place it must have been before The Master's minions overtook the city, and he feels a stab of sorrow for it.

**_Clink!_ **

Quinlan's head snaps toward the sound of glass bottles being jostled – he moves toward it, gripping the bone handle of his sword tighter as he gets closer. He enters the elegantly appointed bar area, where small couches and tables frame the room's centerpiece – a circular oak bar with a golden chandelier over it of running ponies. Dark woods, sagey greens and deep reds – the whole room has a masculine feel to it, like the hunter's lodge of a well-to-do, European family.

Quinlan sniffs the air _…blood._

He looks up and sees the rafters, and with a widening grin he jumps up with cat-like grace, perching for a moment while he listens. After a moment, he hears a sniffling, then more clinking of glass, and then – a male voice singing quietly, slurring his words.

"…I drink brass monkey an' I rock well…gotta cassle in Brooklyn, thasss where I dwell…"

Quinlan covers the distance to the next rafter in one smooth leap, which brings him right over the bar. He perches like a bird and listens, craning his neck to see the bottles moving, and a hand pawing at them, searching through them.

"…brass monkey…that funky monkey…brass monkey junkie, that funky monkey…whas' this one…ooooh…Hennessssyyy…"

Quinlan watches the man's hand snatch the bottle off the shelf, feeling something he hasn't felt in an age – excitement for the hunt. Until Ancharia found him, Quinlan was a feral being and hunted like an animal – feasting with abandon on whatever and _who_ ever he could overpower. But Ancharia changed all that – she helped him understand who he really was and what he was meant to do. She taught him to walk and talk like a human, dress like one and most importantly, behave like one so he could survive in the world. After that, Quinlan disciplined himself, keeping his killings quick and efficient. He got it done and out of the way, satisfying his nutritional requirements and nothing more.

 _Most_ of the time.

But every once in a while, usually after some sort of stressor triggered his baser emotions, the Strigoi part of him would win out and temporarily take over. Then he would hunt like a true predator and enjoy it, draw it out – revel in the bloodlust and his ability to overpower and torture, as had been done to him by others for so long. _Anger…_ that usually did it, but that's not what he feels now. What he feels now is the urge to release, the desire to go all the way – being with Petey awakened it. He wants to finish what he started with her – but he couldn't. Not with her. It would mean her death.

He needs someone else to sacrifice in her place.

So he sniffs the air again, smelling the odor of the man behind the bar, his blood and whatever else was traveling through it. _Drugs of some kind…alcohol…_ undoubtedly to dull his fear and numb himself to the new reality of the world and his own inevitable death. He could smell the fear too, just as strongly as anything else – the unique, indescribable scent that all creatures give off when terrified. Quinlan never found it to be a particularly favorable one – but it serves its purpose, tipping the predator off to an easy target.

For a moment, Quinlan considers letting the man go – letting him have his last days on the planet free to drug and booze himself into oblivion before some other Strigoi drone came along and drained him. He considers finding a harder target – one who would require chasing and capture, one who would get his adrenaline flowing a bit more.

Then he remembers that he already has that _…and she's sleeping peacefully back at the Club._ Quinlan grins at just the thought of Petey – and the idea of getting back to her and having another go is more than enough to light the fire of purpose. He drops down from the rafters and onto the bar, his heavy boots slamming down, making the drunk behind the bar drop the expensive bottle of cognac and scream like a little girl. Quinlan looks down on him as he puts his sword away and then crouches low, waiting for the drunk's hysterics to settle down.

"Please…please don't kill me…" he mutters – and as the seconds tick by without any sound or movement from Quinlan, the drunk becomes a little braver.

"You don't act like the other monsters."

"That's because I'm not," Quinlan replies, and he gasps at the sound of his voice – not only the civilized tone and diction, but the otherworldly echo to it. It scares the drunk as much as his Strigoi face does.

"S-so what are you, then?"

"I'm…me," Quinlan says, his brow doing a slight uptick. Taken off-guard, the drunk laughs, albeit nervously.

"You're a funny guy…for a vampy-monster-thing. So whaddaya want with me?"

"Your blood, of course. I _am_ like the others in that way, I'm afraid."

"So you _are_ gonna kill me."

"Yes, I am."

"Oh, c'mon, man…I don't wanna die!"

"No one ever does."

The man stands up then, grabbing the nearest bottle and throwing it at him. Quinlan deflects it as the man grabs another and hurls it. This time Quinlan catches it faster than any major league infielder and doesn't even break stride, continuing his laser-eyed approach.

"Yeah, well, fuck you! Hope you fuckin' choke on me, fuckin' motherfucker!" the man yells, just as Quinlan grabs him by the throat and slams his back into the bar, pinning him there. He kneads the skin on the man's throat with gloved fingers, their faces almost touching. Quinlan breathes an audible _'haaaaaaa…'_ sound that chills the man as he looks into Quinlan's black mouth. Then he hears a crunchy sort of stretching noise and whimpers as the Strigoi tongue emerges from Quinlan's mouth, the 'petals' unfolding to reveal the stinger.

"Fuck you…fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou…! Fuck you and your whole fucking race! I hope y'all rot in hell!" the man hisses, through gritted teeth. Then he hocks up as much spit as he can and fires, hitting his killer right in his whitish eye. Quinlan can't help but flinch, the stinger withdrawing momentarily – and his grip loosens just enough that he wriggles free and jumps over the bar, taking off as fast as he can. Quinlan wipes the spittle out of his eye and leaps over the bar, spotting the man as he rounds the corner out of the room. He puts on the speed and zips around in front of the man in a blur, just as he gets out into the courtyard. The man stops short and is about to dash to one side when he hears something like a whip cracking. Then he gasps, and his eyes go wide with shock as he realizes he's been stung. But all he can do is look downward to see the tentacle-like tongue stretching from Quinlan's mouth to his throat.

Quinlan closes his eyes as the man's blood flows into him – blood slightly fouled by the amount of alcohol and drugs in the man's system, but not the worst he'd ever tasted. It still does the job, and Quinlan feels lightheaded with the influx until the man's blood pressure drops to the point of no return. Then Quinlan releases him, the stinger rolling back in as quickly as it emerged – and with a last swallow, Quinlan lets out a pure Strigoi cry of release, loud and terrifying.

But as soon as the euphoric fog dissipates, Quinlan picks up on another source of blood nearby – faint, but definitely close. He makes a face, wondering why he didn't pick it up before. All he can think is that the man's blood was so heavy with booze and drugs that he just couldn't make it out. At least, he hopes so – he hopes his senses aren't starting to dull with age. He takes a deep sniff of the air, following the smell back into the derelict restaurant, back to the bar.

Then he hears it – a soft, weak cry, coming from behind the bar. Quinlan jumps over and searches the dark shelves, knocking bottles aside until he grabs a hold of a small bundle of dirty clothes that moves. Quinlan cautiously pulls the bundle apart until he sees what's inside – an infant, no more than a month old. Fussy cries leak out of its mouth while its tiny arms and hands flail about, reaching for anything it can grab onto – but its eyes stay shut tight, blind to the creature holding it.

Quinlan stares down at the child, unable to quite comprehend what he's looking at. An infant was the last thing he expected to find, and he has no idea what to do with it. He lifts it up, closer to his face, taking in its scent _…so very unique._ No two humans had exactly the same smell – but a child's scent in particular, had a uniqueness unmatched by adults. The younger the child, the richer the scent – and the purer and more potent the blood. Infant blood was especially prized by the Ancients, and Quinlan feels the building desire for it even though he just fed. But then he remembers his code, one instilled in him by Ancharia millenia ago.

 _Do not attack the innocent, Quintus,_ she'd said _…feed only on those who have nothing to offer the world. Take only from the takers. It may not always be possible, but you must try. This is what separates you from The Master…your compassion…your ability to put others' needs ahead of your own._

The memory of his adoptive mother's words suppresses the hunger, at least for the moment – and fills his head with questions instead. Had he just killed this infant's father? Did he just orphan this child? Or was it left behind by someone else? Was the child's mother so desperate that she felt the only thing she could do was abandon it? Or was it pure selfishness on her part, a terrified desperation to be rid of the extra baggage?

Not that any of those questions could be answered now. Even if they could, what difference did it make? It wouldn't change the current situation. The only thing he could do for the child was find a safe place for it. He thinks quickly, goes through the few options left – and it leads him back to the same place everything seemed to be leading back to now.

_…_ _Petey…she'll know what to do._

Quinlan wraps the baby back up, managing a soothing 'shhh' as he tucks the squirming bundle in the crook of one arm and takes off, back outside. But he doesn't even get clear of the restaurant's courtyard before he picks up the scent of blood again. He turns around to see a half-dozen men closing in around him, coming at him from both sides of the building.

"Yo, that's him!" one of them shouts, pointing at Quinlan with a handgun – pointing it sideways, just like the punks he ran into at the ice rink. "That's the same freak who got Mikey! Fuckin' take him!"

As Quinlan realizes that it _is_ the same bunch of punks from the ice rink, he shifts the infant from one arm to the other, tucking it in tight to his side as he draws his sword. His eyes dart from one side to the other as he takes a step backward, and then another, not too fast. The punks continue their advance, although none of them want to be the first to take a run at him.

"Whatcha got there, Chief?" the loudmouth punk yells at him, behaving just the same as the idiot he fed on before. Quinlan's lack of response and the deceptive sense of security with the gun he's holding makes the punk bolder and he advances, looking down his pointed nose at him as he leads the way.

Quinlan just cocks his head at him, gripping the bone hilt of his sword tight. "Nothing that concerns you," he replies calmly, which makes the punk's face red with rising fury.

"What'd you just say to me, freak?" he shouts – and without another thought, **_bang!_** He fires and Quinlan ducks it, barely, hearing the high-pitched whine as it zips right past his ear. The other punks join in and Quinlan finds himself getting hit with a barrage of gunfire – some of which he manages to dodge. Others make contact, grazing his face and arms as he swings the sword around to deflect more rounds, sending them ricocheting back and hitting some of the shooters, knocking them down. Quinlan ducks behind one of the bigger trees as it takes more of the rounds for him, sending shredded bark flying everywhere. And tucked in his arm, the infant cries as loud as it can, its newborn ears hurting from the deafening noise.

The punks finally run out of ammo and the noise stops. Quinlan peeks out from behind the tree, through the smoke created by the guns to see three figures left standing – nervously aiming their weapons everywhere, unsure where he is. They close in on the tree, ready to fire – but all they find is the bundle of clothes at the base of the tree. The lead punk shoves his gun in the back of his pants as he picks up the crying infant.

"Shit, it's a fuckin' baby!" he says, and the others gather around it.

"Dude, I heard the Freedom Centers are actually _paying_ people to give up babies. We should take—" another one says, but before he can finish the sentence Quinlan's gloved hands grab his head from behind and snap his neck. As he drops like a rock, Quinlan slams a fist into the throat of the second guy, crushing his larynx, sending him down as well. Quinlan turns to face the lead punk, still holding the crying baby – but with all his gangsta swagger gone, he stares back at Quinlan with terror in his eyes.

Survival instincts kicking in, the lead punk tosses the baby at him and books as fast as he can in the other direction. Quinlan catches the infant and tucks it under his arm again, watching the man flee. Then with one fluid move, he draws his sword and throws it as hard as he can. It flies through the air with the speed of a rocket, turning end over end until the blade impales the punk right in his back. He screams with the impact and drops flat on the ground, the sword sticking out of him like a toothpick in a sandwich.

Quinlan walks over to the punk and steps on his ass to hold him down while he pulls the sword out of him. He lets his stinger deploy to clean up the sword's bloody edge, tinny with the metal and like his previous meal, fouled by alcohol, but still palatable. His stinger retracts as he swings the sword over his shoulder, back into its scabbard. Then he looks down at the still-crying child – and a terrible realization hits him.

As caring and compassionate as she is, Quinlan doubts that Petey would appreciate the responsibility of a child forced upon her. And seeing as Feraldo's people had no resources, the only place she would be able to take the baby to would be _…one of the Freedom Centers._ But after hearing the punks talking about it, Quinlan realizes that he can't let the child go there, either. The only reason they would be paying people to give up infants would be to harvest their blood – undoubtedly for The Master. The poor baby lying helpless in his arm would just end up becoming a snack.

The poor baby lying in his arms _…has no future. No human living in this city would take this child in. No one wants to be responsible for its survival when they cannot even be sure of their own._

_The best thing for the child…is to die. Now. Quickly._

Quinlan takes in a ragged breath at the thought. He wonders what Ancharia would say if she were still alive and could see him now. _What would she do?_ he wonders. He looks into the darkness around him and can almost conjure her likeness in his mind, imagining her standing there watching him with her wise eyes and kind smile.

_Do not attack the innocent, Quintus…but sometimes you will not be able to avoid it._

He feels the right answer already sitting there in his mind, just waiting to be executed by his body. The infant continues to fuss, not having enough energy to continue crying – its eyes squeezed shut, its face flushed red with what little heat is left in its weak body.

"I'm sorry, little one. I truly am," Quinlan says to it, quietly. "But this world is no place for an innocent…not anymore."

* * *

Fet, Gus and Angel sprint through the park, making their way around Tavern on the Green. Angel is the first to notice Quinlan standing in Sheep's Meadow holding something – along with the dead bodies littering the ground around him.

"Shit…think we stumbled into somethin' here," he says, slowing them all down. They take slow steps closer, wanting to see better but not wanting to get close enough to be noticed.

"Is that…?" Fet starts, squinting.

"It's Quinlan," Gus says. "What's he doin'…wait, is that a fuckin' baby?"

Then they all do a startled take as they see Quinlan's stinger emerge and latch onto the infant's tiny throat. The baby only manages to let out a squeak, its tiny limbs flailing a bit – and then going limp as Quinlan drains its blood. Then the stinger detaches and retracts its seemingly impossible length back into Quinlan's mouth.

And all the guys can do is stand there in shock and new terror as Quinlan drops his head back and lets out a loud, guttural cry like a lion's roar. Then he recovers from it, wiping his face with the sleeve of his coat and setting the child's corpse down in the grass. Then he takes off, disappearing in a blur into the park beyond. And it takes Fet, Gus and Angel a moment longer to shut their gaping mouths and exchange worried looks.

"Whaaaat the fuck did we just see?" Angel says. All Gus can do is shrug, clueless – but Fet bites down, setting his jaw hard with a new reason to hate Quinlan.

Like he needed one.

"I'm gonna find out, you can be sure of that. But we gotta get to HQ first. Let's go."


End file.
